


Train Acquaintances

by WackyGoofball



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, I guess it is now..., I shouldn't be writing tags 3 a.m., I shouldn't write so many tags, Jaime seems to have a bit of a mid-life crisis, Meet-Cute, Romance, Summer, Train Stations, Trains, a bit of comedy, among other things, because they know each other, but oh well, city blues, if you can consider what I write funny that is, is that a thing?, maybe I shouldn't be writing fic around that time either, mostly it's... on trains, name has it, of sorts, random things I write to get through the writer's block, romance on a train, so train therapy it is!, sometimes you gotta take a risk huh?, with so many tags, yet here we are
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-02 09:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 41,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10941678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WackyGoofball/pseuds/WackyGoofball
Summary: Jaime Lannister doesn't need public transportation.Nevertheless, he finds himself taking the train again and again, in search of something, or rather someone. A woman with big blue eyes.But things may not go as he had them planned.Let's be real - when does anything go as planned, right?I still totally suck at summaries. Big surprise - not really.





	1. Lion Gate Station

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CTippy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CTippy/gifts).



> Hello everyone, thanks for looking into this story. 
> 
> As I said in the tags already, this is a meager attempt of getting out of the writer's block, so I want to write some shorter piees to somehow get me through that low. 
> 
> I gift this to CTippy because she said that this would be appreciated, so... if she says so, I guess it has to be that way, hopefully. And of course because she deserves gifts, even if it's just meager stuff such as this. 
> 
> A-n-y-w-a-y, I hope you'll enjoy this fic installment, I hope to update the next chapter soon enough. 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Jaime Lannister rotates his head from right to left in a circular motion as he tries to get comfortable on the synthetic leather seats of the train meant to take him away from the hells of the working place of _Lannister Corp_., resisting any urge to let out a grunt of sheer frustration.

He forgot to take his newspaper in the morning, and had no time to buy one before he got on the train, leaving him with _any_ chance to be made achingly aware of every bump and every hole in the seat through which the foam already starts to dig its way to the outside.

It’s not like he’d have to take the train, _obviously_.

After all, Jaime is the son of Tywin Lannister, one of the wealthiest and most influential men in all of King’s Landing, if not entire Westeros.

Tyrion laughed for about five minutes non-stop, tears filling his eyes, when the older brother informed him that, yes, Jaime has been taking the train to work in a few weeks by the time his little brother asked him how it came that he was late to work, to which Jaime had no other reply than that the train was late.

“But why would you do that?” Tyrion asked him, as though it was the most unnatural thing on earth to even consider public transportation, though, upon reflection, it probably really is. “You have a car, a fancy car. We have drivers.”

“A grumpy one who’s only friends with you. He always tells me that I am too pretty. And I don’t know if it’s a good sign that he’s your drinking buddy as well as your driver, by the way,” Jaime pointed out to him back when he informed Tyrion of his little adventures of public transportation for the first time.

“Bronn’s fine. While he only keeps my company because I pay him, I do believe that is one of the purest kinds of relationships. We are on the same page and there is no hiding of ulterior motives, they are out in the open!” Tyrion informed him. “So, to get back on topic here – why would you want to take the train when you have the option… _not_ to?”

Back then, Jaime didn’t know exactly what to tell his younger brother.

So he stuck to some nonsensical story about wanting to get a “taste of the real world,” and to “dive into the city experience – we’ve been living here for how long? And I haven’t ever taken a stroll through the park or took a train until recently. Maybe we miss out on something, how would I know unless I dare to find out?” That didn’t prove to be entirely satisfactory for his cunning brother, but enough for him to no longer address the matter.

Truth be told, Jaime cannot say why exactly he started it.

A part of him maybe really wanted to break out of those oh so vicious cycles that come with a scheduled, regulated life a Lannister is born with. Because there is an entire family _empire_ looming beyond a Lannister baby’s crib, outlining the first thirty years of one’s life in achingly accurate detail.

By the time Jaime came out of high school, he already had the way paved for him to choose between three colleges, to give him at least the _illusion_ of having a choice in his own life – because, in fact, he didn’t really have a choice.

On the day he got his diploma, Jaime found a neatly packed gift box by his father on his desk in which there were Lannister pen in gold with his name engraved, an antiquarian wax seal with the family sigil, and a folder containing the possible programs either college had to offer, though all courses amounted to the same degree.

His father seemingly considered that an initiation ritual of some sort.

There was never any questioning that Jaime would be framed to, one distant day, run _Lannister Corp_. in his father’s stead. Therefore, it only seemed logical that he studied business administration, economics, and management.

Looking back at things now, Jaime’s life would have lived on even without him, it would have gone on with or without him in it.

Back during his rebellious years, Jaime earnestly considered getting a cardboard stand-up of himself to see if his father would even realize if he or his cardboard double would go off to _Oldtown College_. And it was during those rebellious years that he considered joining the Kinsguard, to do his military service, though gladly, he assumes, he pedaled back from that at the last second.

Only the Seven will now what trouble that prevented.

Thus, over the years, Jaime learned to relish those little liberties that come with proving himself worthy of Tywin Lannister’s trust, living by the rules, and only bending them out of peoples’ view.

_Then you get to be **a bit** experimental, even if only within boundaries. _

Tyrion and Jaime’s twin sister Cersei, by contrast, have had little leash for a while now. Tyrion because of his constant whoring around the office, and Cersei for acting like the left-behind, unloved, neglected child (which couldn’t be further from the truth) who should get so much more power than she actually should wield, judging by he capacities in the management department.

Cersei could be far better at her job if only she accepted that management is not her field of expertise. However, the way things stand at present, she is way too busy bossing around the people beneath her, and thus spends most of her time twisting in her office chair in utter boredom, lamenting about her marriage with Robert, which, for all Jaime knows, would greatly profit from a divorce. Because, deep down all involved know that both are having affairs and are only married on paper.

Tyrion, on the other hand, is capable of much more than most people would think a dwarf to be able to do. The issue, though, is that he is also unreliable when it matters.

He has a flask in his drawer and not just for decoration, and Jaime honestly lost count of how many times he, his father, his sister, or other co-workers walked in on him, a secretary’s lipstick-ed mouth around his cock by the copying machines or making out with some “personal trainer” (who not coincidentally all work down Silk Street) teaching him the arts of bending the body at awkward angles, right on the office table.

_And the Gods know where else._

Which is why Jaime developed a habit of bringing disinfectant wipes along. One can never know if his little brother’s ass didn’t wipe across that seat, that chair, that table, or that copying machine.

The whoring around itself would be the least of concerns if Tyrion gave only just a damn not to do it right under Tywin’s nose, so Jaime reckons, but he also knows that this is part of the purpose. If only to provoke the father who always truly neglected the youngest child, still bearing bitter feelings for him because it was during Tyrion’s birth that their mother died. Tyrion tries to get back at their father by rubbing it right under his Tywin’s nose that the empire he built is faltering, fleeting, and that he can’t get rid of his youngest son no matter how much he may hate him.

While Jaime understands Tyrion on that matter more than well, having made it part of his life since he was very young to defend his little brother specifically in front of the rest of the family. Because even Cersei has little love to give for Tyrion. She only ever picked up on the bad traits their father passed on to them, as it appears.

Nevertheless, Jaime can’t help but also feel frustrated at his younger brother’s behavior. Tyrion could do much more if only he stopped trampling through those murky waters over and over, expecting change to happen, or rather, knowing no change will happen, only to prove just that circumstance _ad nauseam_.  

However noble that may seem, it’s largely ineffective, and only helps nurse Tyrion’s growing frustration and bitterness, which leads to more and more glasses of red arbor being emptied and increasingly more evenings Jaime is bound to spend with his little brother, listening to Tyrion’s ongoing lamentations about the same things.

Jaime, by contrast, is treated as the golden son because he plays by the rules, or rather, learned to balance between playing in accordance to Tywin Lannister’s catalog of what makes a good son, and when it’s appropriate to break or bend them.

Because Jaime Lannister may be many things, but he is no lickspittle by any means.

He perceives himself as the unwilling diplomat of the family, more or less. Not because Jaime is a saint, _far from it_ , he made some many stupid decisions despite having his life predetermined in so many ways, but because he is the only one who tries to negotiate between his family members to somehow keep the peace.

_Or just to keep Cersei from killing Tyrion, who’d then try to kill Father, only to have Father turning against my dear sister… or something like that._

Since Jaime fills in the role of the diplomat, he thus enjoys the responsibilities and apparent luxuries that position comes with. When he said he wanted to go abroad to Dorne for an extended business trip, he could do so with the wave of his father’s hand whereas someone like Cersei would have had to beg and pout for ages.

When he has another business plan in mind, his father will at least listen to him. And that leads some many times to the sort of concealment that makes him perhaps not as golden if Tywin were to know, because he and Tyrion often discuss those business plans that fall under Jaime’s responsibility, despite the fact that his little brother is far better at them than he is. Therefore, most of the ideas that Jaime then presents to his father are a collaboration forged by the brothers. Of course only under the premise that Tyrion wants this to happen. He was the one to suggest it in the first place.

Jaime never feels comfortable taking laurels for himself that he hasn’t earned all alone, but that seems to be his brother’s way of helping the family enterprise despite his overt efforts of working against it.

_In sum, the Lannister family is a bunch of schizophrenic maniacs._

Him included.

Because it must be a kind of madness to take the train, despite the fact that Jaime hates a lot about public transportation. The smells, the trains’ interiors, the yellowed plans in misty showcases that weren’t updated for the last five years.

Just like it must be a madness to insist on it for _very_ lofty reasons, to say the least.

At first it was the sense of adventure. Jaime never took the train, so he wanted to get some new experiences. With thirty years, he could finally “go wild” after all, even if it was just taking the train to work.

_And then… well, stubbornness, really._

“Next station: Cobbler’s Square. Exit to the left in the direction of travel. Please, mind the gap.”

Jaime shakes out his legs which start to tingle with the message of being short before deadening, ignoring the announcement blaring over the loudspeakers the best he can, only to have that annoying, scratching sound at the end of each message that makes the fine hairs in his neck stand up straight.  

For a moment, Jaime considers getting off the train to hail a cab, or the Seven may forbid, walk the rest of the way to his condo further uptown.

It’s awfully hot today, the compartment is stuffed with people bouncing back and forth, stumbling, shuffling, chatting, listening to too loud music, eating, drinking, sweating in varying degrees, or lamenting about the train not going any faster.

To Jaime’s liking, the train is filled with too much noise, too many voices, and the occasional rustling of plastic bags from shopping sprees down Pigrun Alley, which grew to be an _en vogue_ street with all of its alternative and _trendy_ stores that popped up over the past few years, after it was decided that the city of King’s Landing needed a _new self-image_.

The shops on that street are so very popular nowadays that they are fading in originality with every person passing through them. Or so is Jaime’s impression at least, because he keeps seeing those girls and boys believing to have the most outstanding, innovative style, when in fact, they all carry around bags from the same ten shops.

Jaime cranes his neck, making the bones pop. Maybe he should just leave, to escape the smells, the noises, the people.

_Just why do I bother?!_

However, that is when _she_ enters the already crowded train compartment, and Jaime finds himself cemented to his seat as the doors close and the train starts to move again with a loud screeching noise.

For that it’s quite hot outside, even for King’s Landing’s standards, she is dressed rather modestly: a navy-blue t-shirt that could easily be from the men’s department, coupled with jeans shorts going all the way up to the knee, and white sneakers.

Jaime was hoping for hot pants, but seemingly, today is not his lucky day.

Though then again, he is sitting in this almost _cooking_ compartment in his finest business suit, the jacket neatly folded inside out so not to have it get all wrinkled and carefully arranged across his lap. So maybe _he_ is the one who is dressed most modestly after all.

_Most expensively without a doubt, though. The suit alone costs a small fortune._

Jaime’s eyes drift back to her as she takes up her usual position, reaching up with one hand to tangle it through the triangular handles colored in a nasty shade of yellow, the muscles of her arm inevitably flexing as she does.

As usual, she has yet another book in her free hand, already halfway through it. Jaime can’t help but find it not just amusing but fascinating just how many novels that woman seems to devour on a daily basis. Depending on the size of the book, she will carry a new one three days after she brought it on the train first.

Her taste seems to not be limited to a single genre, though she stays away from the lady magazines with the latest make-up trends and tricks in _Margaery’s Make-Up Corner_ , which has gained national fame ever since it first aired. The rise in popularity earned the young woman from Highgarden a sponsored beauty blog, a TV show, and a regular spot on a discussion round airing once a month on _Central Westeros Network_ to present the latest gossips about celebrities and commenting ever so sharply about the fashion faux pas on red carpets.

_No, her taste is more refined than that._

The first time Jaime saw her on the train, she carried with her a book she seemingly read more than once, judging by how worn it was by the edges. _Ser Galladon of Morne and the Just Maid_.

Generally, she seems to have a fable for those old stories, or so Jaime gathered by now. Knight’s tales, about dragons and fair maidens to be rescued from towers by knights riding in on a mighty steed, to carry her off into a better life, riding right into the sunrise, the beast long since slain.

He saw her read _The Hedge Knight_ , _The Sworn Sword_ , _The Mystery Knight_ , _The Dance of Dragons_ , and just recently _The Reign of the Storm: When the Storm King met the Daughter of the Sea_.

Romance in general seems to be a big thing for her, or so Jaime assumes, judging by the selection he saw up until now.

She seems to have a guilty pleasure for non-fiction books, too. A couple of times he could catch a glimpse of dictionaries and small booklets dealing with medieval sword forging, fencing, and swordsmanship during the periods of _Robert’s Rebellion_ all the way to the _Dream of Spring_ , the reconstruction period following the _Long Night_.

Jaime never saw her enter the train without a book in hand, however. And he has been taking the train on a daily basis for a while now, just like she rides the train around that time everyday, too. Yet, not once has she boarded a train without having her long, calloused fingers wrapped around some novel, dictionary, or non-fiction booklet.

Just like she always wears those damned earbuds, which seem to work like an invisible shield for her, fading out all noise that is distracting her train of thought as she digs her way through the next book of her interest.

Just like that makes trying to communicate with her ever the harder without forcing oneself upon her.

Because, while Jaime has absolutely no trouble to approach someone he would like to talk to, he doesn’t like to intrude people’s privacy in that way.

Oh well, he enjoys it every now and then, but in that particular case, it seems like the entirely wrong approach.

Needless to mention that ever since Jaime caught a glimpse of her on the train, the plan kept forming inside his head that he’d want to have _her_ notice him first.

Because no matter how often Jaime knows she is making eye contact with him, which she _does_ , no way of denying it, she doesn't seem to recognize him.

Him, Jaime Lannister.

_Imagine that!_

That in itself may not seem surprising, but the issue is that she _should_ know him, not just from that stupid, awful, shameful, super-huge poster of his being still displayed down River Row, when his father forced him to become the face of the Lannister brand to promote their latest project.

She should remember him.

Because they met before.

They even talked.

He introduced himself.

She introduced herself through pursed lips, barely moving her jaws apart.

They shook hands, with firm grips.

They talked.

They even had a small quarrel.

_More than one, admittedly. And… not just a small one, upon reflection._

And now that he found her again on the train some time ago, she didn’t give _any_ indication of recognizing him, of remembering him.

At first, it simply pissed Jaime off, because he well remembered her. They worked together, then you keep those things in mind, especially if the time passed between the initial meeting and the meeting again is not at all that big. He was taught very early on in his life how important business ties are, and that includes to always know people’s names and faces.

Yet, that woman keeps ignoring him, acting as though she doesn’t know the man’s face she _must_ pass by on her way to the train, since it is plastered on too many walls in the shape of the stupid posters, even if she can’t bring herself to remember the guy whom she wanted to kick underneath the table during the negotiations a good number of times.

And that even though Jaime can still tell that her name is Brienne of Tarth, daughter of Selwyn Tarth, whose company, however small it may appear, is one of the most influential transportation centers in the Stormlands.

That is due to the fact that it’s at such a strategically relevant location, bridging between the Eastern coast of Westeros across the Narrow Sea to Essos and similarly working as the pitstop between the capital and Dorne in the South that no one who is serious in shipping would want to be at odds with _Evenfall Hall Enterprise_.

Jaime can still tell what she wore for the business meeting, he can still remember her stats, and the position within the family’s company, which was given to him in the folder including all vital information he asks for before meeting possible business partners.

He can still remember that she liked her coffee black, didn’t know how to move her long legs that seem to go on forever and ever as she sat down at his desk, and that she was not at all pleased with him at first, believing that Jaime was just the replica of his father and would therefore try to take advantage of the family-owned company.

_Though that couldn’t have been further from the truth._

After all, it was _Jaime_ who ever put forward _Evenfall Hall Enterprise_ as a new business partner since they wanted to expand more in the Dornish market, after those ties had been under _enormous_ strain following that certain incident where Elia Martell’s small start-up got crushed by the monopoly of _Lannister Corp_., and after Cersei helped screw things up further by ordering her daughter back home and away from Sunspear’s boarding school, having heard rumors that Myrcella had fallen in love with Doran Martell’s son Trystane.

Something Cersei didn't approve of upon principle, or so it seemed – because she was against the boarding school anyway, and only ever consented due to pressure from all sides, her husband’s her father’s, and Tyrion’s, and that even though Myrcella seemed so very happy in Dorne after she accustomed, or so Jaime’s niece told him after she had to return upon her mother’s order.

While Jaime understood Cersei’s wish to have her daughter around her, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for Myrcella, too, because she is now unhappily stuck at a girls-only boarding school close to King’s Landing when all she really wants is to go back to Dorne to be with her sweetheart.

Though it appears that she is still busily texting and video-chatting with her boyfriend, or so Jaime was told.

So no, Jaime didn’t mean to take over _Evenfall Hall Enterprise_ by any means, but _Miss Tarth_ seemed a hundred percent sure of that circumstance. He only ever wanted to work out a treaty to redirect some of their off-shore shipping through Tarth to help distribution over to Dorne.

 _Miss Tarth_ was having none of it at first, to the point that Jaime could have lunged across the table to shake her every now and then, but as the conversation progressed, he realized that she was just very protective of her family’s company and didn’t want to see it happening again what happened back when the Lannisters, infamously, consumed the Casterlies’ businesses entirely.

And that is something he well understood.

By the end of the day, they managed to find an agreement beneficial to both sides, the contract was signed, and Jaime was most certain that he wouldn’t see the tall, freckled, blonde woman full of stubbornness ever again.

And for a time Jaime didn’t, until he spotted her on the train, lost in her books, her little world hiding between the printed pages.

It was only then that it dawned on Jaime that Brienne may have lived in King’s Landing the whole time – without his notice. He never bothered to check back then – why should he? Thus, he assumed that she only ever came to the capital to settle the treaties, only to head back to Tarth first chance she got.

Though it may also be that she relocated to King’s Landing some time after their conversation, for whatever the reason.

Jaime would probably know by now, if only that woman would finally… _respond_ in some way, to give him a sign that she is open for that, because no, Jaime is not set on tearing down walls or doors.

He felt tempted more than once to just call out to her, but what prevented him from it was a situation maybe a week after he first saw her on the train.

She stood very close to where he was sitting, and someone whom Brienne knew called out to her across the compartment. The blonde woman blushed the brightest shades of pink as the bulky guy with fiery red hair approached, moving with the grace of a mountain troll, and _threw_ himself at her, almost knocking her (and some other passengers) over, if not for her grip on the triangular handle above keeping her upright.

For a moment, Jaime thought that this may have been her boyfriend, or even if not, someone trying to hit on her in a too long time, still not having caught up to the news just yet that she is not interested, and he found that a part of him was… _jealous_ … _more_ than jealous, despite the fact that Jaime knew that this was perfectly, absolutely irrational.

As was mentioned, madness seems to run in the Lannister family after all, along with innate stubbornness, arrogance, and difficult familial relations.

On the way from Cobbler’s Square to the Gate of the Gods Station, Jaime was _that_ close to actually stand up and say something to that Wildling-like fellow with the unkempt beard, because the guy wasn’t just done with leering at Brienne as though she was a bone for him to chew on, but also used that one opportunity of a sharp left turn to _oh-oops_ grab on to her lower back, hoping to venture a bit further down.

In a _not_ very smooth manner, Jaime may add.

As he was about to lift himself off his seat, Jaime had to sit back down to watch the _spectacle_ , however, because Brienne _forcefully_ removed that guy’s hand at once, not uttering a single word, only to hold on to the guy’s wrist to drag him to the doors opening by Gate of the Gods Station to shove him out with one mighty thrust. She then resumed her position, despite the people’s stares, readjusted her grip on the triangular handle above her head, blew air through her nostrils and plugged her earbuds back in, turning up the volume – _a lot_.

Jaime watched on in amusement as the train left the station, and the red-haired guy still sat on the ground, dumbfounded, and if Jaime is not mistaken, his lip was quivering.

No matter how manly a guy may appear, in the end, what crushes most male egos is women’s rejection of them, or so Jaime learned.

_Men are fragile like that, well, **most** of them. _

Because Jaime Lannister is not like most men. There is no one like him, only him.

While he had been earnestly impressed by Brienne’s way of going about that ginger wanker, it also made him a bit more cautious regarding his own approaching of her.

Jaime still has no clue how well she knew the guy who thought her rear was up for grabs, and if he wouldn’t get a similar treatment if he were to call her up on a crowded train. Because that woman doesn’t seem to want to have anything to do with what is happening around her, cutting herself off with music and fiction.

There is something very deliberate to that act, or so Jaime figures, having seen some many people use similar techniques to transmit the message “keep away” without having to utter it out loud only just once.

Needless to mention that while they left on peaceful terms, he cannot be sure if she didn’t pray to the Seven in thanks for finally ridding herself of Tywin Lannister’s arrogant son, so she may earnestly not want to have to do with him specifically, and not just humanity at large.

After all, the woman keeps ignoring him almost persistently.

_The little minx with big blue eyes._

“Next station: Gate of the Gods. Exit to the right in the direction of travel. Please, mind the gap.”

Brienne’s eyes drift to the loudspeaker once, before her gaze retreats to the book in her hand. Yet, there is that one moment when her brilliantly blue eyes wander across the compartment, and Jaime is certain, a hundred percent sure, that her glance lingers on him for a moment longer than necessary before focusing back on the written words on the yellowed page she turned to before the announcement.

Just _why_ won’t she give any indication of acknowledging him?

It’s not that Jaime expects her to talk to him. For that Brienne is tall and strong, _imposing almost_ , Jaime got the impression that this woman is actually rather shy, and just finds a way to hide and obscure that fact behind her stubborn attitude.

However, she could potentially give him a wave, a nod, _something_ to tell him that she is not having hostile feelings towards him.

_Just that she won’t._

To Jaime’s understanding, that leaves two options as to why Brienne acts the way she does: One, Brienne really doesn’t like him, following that encounter back at _Lannister Corp_. and therefore tries not to draw attention to herself in the hope that he won’t see her despite her height inevitably making her stick out in any crowd. Or two, Brienne is playing him.

Of the two options, the second is the most promising, whereas Jaime reckons that the first one seems most likely. And of course, there is always the possibility that Brienne earnestly forgot about him… and just walks around with the blinders on to bypass the torn and scribbled-on posters of his displayed throughout the city.

Jaime lets out a sigh.

Maybe he has to make a bold move once, to see where he stands.

Because otherwise, Jaime may just as well console himself with driving to work again, only to get stuck in the traffic jam (traffic in and around King’s Landing has always been a nightmare), which was what inspired him in the first place to ever consider public transportation.

Ever since he caught her on the train, Jaime has been _way_ too eager than is probably healthy in needing to find her, to see if there is any change in her reaction towards him.

Which is a pathetic thing in itself, he knows, but Jaime can’t seem to help himself.

_For whatever the reason._

Jaime is not a lady’s man, really. While he even landed himself on the front page of a magazine declaring him to be _The Most Wanted Bachelor in the Crownlands_ , he considers himself someone looking for a stable life instead of short-lived adventures.

He had a few relationships, though most didn’t last for long because the women were either not out for what Jaime was having in mind, or because the chemistry just wasn’t right in the end. As to the former reason, a lot of the woman he dated only briefly were actually hoping to get more popular thanks to being with him. Jaime is more or less of a celebrity around the area thanks to his family name anyway.

_And who wouldn’t want a fancy castle to live in, right?_

Just that Jaime was always fast at bursting that bubble for the women believing those fantasies and fictions, explaining simply that he doesn't live in the family residence, even though he could, but lives in a condo all by himself instead, that he keeps away from social events unless absolutely necessary for him to attend them, and is not at all interested in home stories and photo collections to be published in tabloids and women’s magazines later on being on display at the doctors’ waiting rooms.

What normally scared off any of these women if that didn’t put the nail in the coffin already was when Jaime started to talk _future_ , however.

 _It’s curious how that can be an absolute deal-breaker_ , he thinks to himself, almost amused.

Future is a scary concept for people who only look for the next best source of fame, however short-lived it may be.

Because for _some_ reason, a lot of people believe that he is a womanizer only ever out for fast adventures, jet set life, weekend trips with private jets across the Narrow Sea only to party at one of the fancy clubs run by Daario Naharis in Meereen, with champagne and excess, loud music and sunglasses.

While, quite on the contrary, Jaime is, much to _everyone’s_ surprise, almost awfully conventional in his desires and future plans. He isn’t even particularly interested in the grandeur family legacy his father wants to bequeath him with, though Jaime will do the job if it falls into his responsibilities, no doubt.

However, it’s not what he wants, it’s just something he has no trouble having or dealing with. At least that is Jaime’s attitude ever since he accepted his role within the family and stopped being a ridiculously rebellious young adult who sought something else, whatever it may have been.

What Jaime _really_ wants, however, is a settled life.

 _Shocking_ , he knows.

He wants to be husband, wants to have a wife. Children would be nice, too. Jaime always wanted to be more of an important figure in his nephews’ and niece’s life already if only to get an impression of what it’d be like to have some of his own, though Cersei wouldn’t have it, for whatever the reason. However, that doesn’t make him fancy that sort of life any less.

Truth be told, Jaime would actually like a life far, far away from King’s Landing. Casterly Rock, maybe. Or somewhere else. He is open to pretty much anything. Just not _this_ city.

Jaime lived in King’s Landing for many years by now, but he never felt at home here. Despite being a well-known face around the area, Jaime still feels like living a life stuck in anonymity, a life at the borders, rather than within them.

And perhaps that is also what inspired Jaime to take the train, to somehow emerge into a life that seems to be more at the center than on the fringes.

_Just that this didn’t prove to be very successful._

If at all, it made him almost achingly aware just how distant he is from the city, and the people within it. Even on a train, jammed between sweating or sleeping (or both) people, Jaime feels like he goes without notice, passes through, unseen, unheard.

Even when people recognize him, it doesn’t feel to Jaime like he is a part of that society, a part of this city. They look at him once, maybe wave, maybe take a picture, maybe not, and then go on with their own little lives, leaving him to blur into the background again.

Jaime never manages to penetrate, to merge into that part of society, of the city, no matter how often he takes the train, no matter how often he takes up space right within that compartment, that life.

He can do it on the job, no bother. He can interact, he can sink right into people’s stories, even if they are terribly boring. He can give people the feeling that they are hat home with him, but Jaime never really managed to revert that trick back to himself.

And the very fact that Brienne doesn’t seem to see him no matter how often he knows her eyes are on him, only reinforces that feeling of anonymity, homelessness, not belonging anywhere – because he shouldn’t be a total stranger to her, and still, she ignores him.

Irrational much, Jaime knows, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling that way.  

Which is not at all pleasant, he may add.

Jaime is ripped out of his thoughts as the train takes a sharp turn to the left, almost knocking him against his obese seatmate with a shirt too small for a guy his size.

He turns his head to see Brienne stumbling around a bit, her iron-like grip being the only thing that prevents her from falling over, her muscles flexing and unflexing. A small growl of frustration escapes her lips as she bends down to gather her bag, fidgeting around with some of the items on the verge of falling out.  

“Next station: Lion Gate. Exit to the right in the direction of travel. Please, mind the gap.”

Jaime is stunned for a moment when he sees Brienne _hurrying_ to the doors at once. Normally, she gets off the train by King’s Gate Station.

 _Maybe she has an important appointment_ , he thinks to himself pensively. _Or… a date_.

Jaime shakes his head even though his stomach unexpectedly turns into a knot at the mere thought of it.

Just why does he keep thinking about what may be going on in her life anyway? This is utterly ridiculous. He’s never done that in his entire life.

_For good reason, because this is utterly ridiculous._

If he liked a woman well enough, or simply wanted to get to know her, Jaime would approach her, confident in his step, confident in his words, would start to talk to her with an easy smile, and eventually ask her for her number, a date, dinner. It used to be just that simple, but ever since he’s caught Brienne on the train, Jaime can’t seem to think straight, having unlearned all of those things he’s been practicing over the years to bring this theatrical act almost to perfection.

Jaime hasn’t dated anyone in _ages_ , which doesn’t exactly help him and his growing frustration – on _more_ than one level, and that… _because… of a woman on a train, who may well have a boyfriend, a husband, even_. She may children, how would Jaime know? It didn’t say so in the profile he got when she came to _Lannister Corp_.

Yet, his life narrowed itself down to seeking those moments when she enters the train. It collapsed upon itself to the point that this is the best part of his day, seeing her.

_And how pathetic is that?!_

Jaime _could_ have a sweet girlfriend again, of the kind that likes to show off with him the whole time, toothpaste smile, styled hair, high heels, nearly always agreeing with him, or even if not, pretending to share his view so not to cause ruptures, and very much afraid of any future plans reaching beyond what they’d have for dinner.

He could be dating again, without strings attached, maybe even have some one-night stands. It’s not like he is going to fail to find someone willing – that’s never been an issue.

 _Seven Hells_ , he could go to Silk Street right now to get rid of some of the frustration pooling deep in the pit of his stomach and the _regions below_ , but for _some_ damned reason… Jaime can’t, even though he could.

_Yes, pathetic is most definitely the word._

Jaime shakes his head, leaning back against his seat, which makes weird sighing sounds as the air is pressed out of the thin layer of foam. His eyes drift off to where she stood a few moments ago, only to see that the book she had in hand now lies on the metal floor.

He bends down to pick it up, running his fingers over the leather cover, which has a footprint on it now.

It’s the _Ser Galldon of Morne and the Just Maid book_ no less, Jaime notes as he twists the book in his hands pensively.

A smile starts to spread across his face as the ideas keep forming inside his head.

He is a man building for futures after all.  

And as it appears, Jaime just got himself the _perfect_ ticket to finally break out of that limbo he got himself stuck in.

_Now I just have to get off that train or else I am going to melt in the summer heat._

Jaime puts the book in his leather briefcase, ignoring his seatmate leaning more and more against him as he starts to doze off.

The end of his madness is near, Jaime is sure of it now.  

And all thanks to that little book.

As it appears, fiction can solve some many problems, leading to unknown futures. 


	2. Gate of the Gods Station

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime brings the book Brienne lost on the train, in the hope that this will buy him a ticket into her little world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for commenting and kudoing! You are such a kind readership!
> 
> I hope you'll like the next istallment. 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

If there is one thing that Jaime hates more than taking the train in the summer heat, then it is taking the train during summer _rain_ , or so he had to realize the moment on he climbed into the compartment, resisting any urge to just back out at once.

Not only does the entire compartment smell like wet dogs mingled with the odor of sweat and moist cotton, but it feels as though he is breathing blocks of air, one at a time, each block incredibly heavy from the evaporating water.

_On the upside, you can get a sauna trip for free._

Though, for the record, Jaime dislikes saunas out of principle. It’s simply that he hates _that_ kind of sweatbath even more than those fancy clubs you have to pay lots of money for, only to get a fresh towel and a wooden room with hot stones and evaporated water making you dizzy in the head.

Needless to mention the mostly no longer as well-trained men with beer guts of varying sizes and differing degrees of sagging skin covering perhaps _gladly_ most of their manhood as they remove their white towels to sit on them.

_Yeah, no, never again._

That one time Jaime was forced into having an actual _business_ meeting in a spa taught him that this was _nothing_ he’d ever do in a lifetime again, so long he can help it. Jaime couldn’t look at the client without picturing him the way he presented himself to him in that sauna Jaime was invited (forced) to, and that made working with that man in his mid-fifties an almost impossible task thereafter.

_Though train saunas are not much better, really._

Jaime’s white shirt sticks to his skin thanks to a mixture of rain water that won’t dry due to the humidity and his own perspiration.

To make matters worse, they are now past Cobbler’s Square, and Brienne didn’t get on the train at the station, though that is where she would normally hop on the train with her endlessly long legs and big blue eyes trying to spot a good spot to stand.

He shall be damned if she is not taking the train today. Because Jaime needs to give her the book back – to have a chance to engage with her in a totally normal, natural, _not at all_ prepared conversation.

_Of course._

However, if Brienne doesn’t get on the train today, it may well be that Jaime will throw a fit in front of all people in the compartment because he is _dying_ in the equivalent of a sardine can – _for nothing, then_.

“Next station: Gate of the Gods. Exit to the right in the direction of travel. Please, mind the gap.”

Jaime considers getting out of this metal coffin before he dies of dehydration.

The doors are short before closing, but that is when they move back open due to someone frantically pushing the button outside, and in hurries the tall woman whom he has been looking for.

_Thank the Seven for not making this trip down the Seven Hells for nothing._

The poor soul is drenched to the bone, her hair a mess of wet strands standing up in all kinds of directions. To make matters worse, she is dressed in a business suit with long trousers and way too thick material for that kind of weather, in a very dark shade of blue that goes well with her eyes, however.

Jaime watches as Brienne motions to her usual spot, and hooks her hand through the handle above. Her rather flat chest is heaving with every breath she forces out of her lungs. Brienne rakes her long fingers through her moist hair, trying to smooth some of the strands back, though with only little success.

Brienne seems to realize this even without taking out a mirror to look at herself, lets out a grunt of frustration as she runs her now wet hand against the side of her trousers to get some of the droplets to sink into the damp cloth.

Jaime is a bit irritated when even after her breath evened out some, Brienne doesn’t even seem to consider taking off the jacket making her _clearly_ uncomfortable, as she keeps moving it away from her body, fanning herself with it slightly, if futilely.

This is also the first time he sees her without earbuds and novel in hand.

_Speaking of which…_

Jaime lets his hand slip into his briefcase to retrieve the novel Brienne left on the train the other day. Gladly, the footprint washed off with a damp cloth once he got home, so Jaime won’t return it to her with someone else’s boot imprint smudged over the image of a knight holding a glowing sword in hand.

 _Now or never,_ Jaime thinks to himself.

“Uhm, excuse me?” he begins, licking his lips. At first, Brienne doesn’t react at all, seemingly not taking notice of him. Another attempt of speaking up louder doesn’t get him her attention yet either, so Jaime shakes his head, seeing no other choice but to get up to move closer to her, holding the book right to where Brienne can see it with her lowered gaze.

Her big blue eyes open wide at once as her head shoots up to meet his gaze. They are even more brilliantly blue than Jaime remembers them to be from when they first met.

_She does have astonishing eyes._

“You left that on the train yesterday,” Jaime goes on to say, letting out a light cough. Brienne studies him for a long moment, her eyes dancing back and forth between the book and his face, seemingly not quite believing it herself.

“Oh, that is… I thought it was gone,” she mutters, relief written across her features.

 Jaime holds the worn leather book out to her another time. Brienne takes it, her hands shaking for only just a moment as she does.

“It must have fallen out of your bag as you hurried out of the train,” he goes on to say, trying to build up _some_ ground for conversation.

Though he has to wonder just why he has to think about these things right at this moment. He never has to consider what he has to say to what effect. He simply knows, but now, his mind is a blank plane, waiting if not _aching_ for any kind of input.

“Right, right. I only realized once I was already halfway across the station that I lost it. I feared it was gone for sure,” Brienne agrees, her eyes drifting back to the book, her thumb running over the cover almost tenderly. “That is… thank you so much.”

“It’s nothing,” he assures her.

“No, it’s… that book means a whole lot to me personally, but…,” she says, but then stops herself, shaking her head. “Sorry, that needn’t concern you. Thank you for picking it up and bringing it along, even.”

It would be a lie to say that Jaime is not all disappointed that she caught herself before letting on that little private detail about herself.

Though Jaime would like to tell himself the lie that he is not at all craving to know these kinds of things.

_Because that is, in itself, rather pathetic, no?_

He barely knows that woman, still, so he shouldn’t be aching for some snippets and pieces of her private life, her private self.

But he can’t seem to stop himself.

_A kind of madness indeed._

Brienne looks at him for a long moment before Jaime can detect her trying to drift away, so he takes a chance, unable to allow the conversation to just come to an end the same way contact breaks off when people recognize him, and then avert their gaze.

It’s not like he has much to lose anyway, because Jaime is just _that_ close to losing his last nerve… and his life, considering that he keeps sweating out very much needed bodily fluids.

_Now or never most definitely._

“I think we are short before melting here,” Jaime huffs, looking around, trying his best to sound _very_ casual, even if he knows that he is acting anything but casually, is anything but relaxed. His knuckles are white thanks to his grip tightening around the handle above.

_Jaime Lannister, nervous. There is a first time for everything, as it seems._

Brienne didn’t give him any indication going either direction, so perhaps it’s for the best to play it cool for now, act as though they are strangers who met on a train only just by chance. At least for now.

“Might be,” she replies curtly, barely moving her lips apart, just the way he remembers her to back when they first met at _Lannister Corp_.

It’s odd, really, how someone standing as tall and strong as Brienne can turn in on herself, make herself as tiny as possible, just with the snap of the fingers.

Jaime observed those little moments already during their first meeting at the office, and found them strangely fascinating, even if he didn’t let that on by the time, because, of course, he wouldn’t ever allow weakness or curiosity to show when he is in the spectrum of his profession.

He is way too used to enacting his role there, leaving Jaime only when in conversation with Tyrion or Bronn as who he considers himself to be, and not who others believe him to be.

Back when they discussed the contract, Brienne spoke up as boldly as she could at first, put up her defenses, scowled a lot, snapped, insulted, even, which was about as annoying as it was charming, in a queer way.

However, the moment on Jaime came up with a comeback Brienne didn’t see coming, something that seemingly pushed a lot of buttons Jaime was and still doesn’t know exactly what they are and how they function, she would curl into herself. Her responses grew shorter and shorter, her gaze turned to the ground, and Brienne started shifting her long legs in a way that he assumes she has been doing since she was all but a girl.

And then there were those almost curious moments when she came to speak about her family, her father, and how she feared that _Lannister Corp_. may take advantage of a business which “means the world” to Selwyn Tarth. Her voice would soften, but not diminish, in fact would gain impact, would gain meaning.

And a very selfish part of Jaime felt jealous, _yes_ , jealous, for evidently feeling that strong about her family, about her father specifically, when all _he_ feels for his father is duty, the wish not to disappoint expectations, anger for Tyrion’s treatment, and for helping all the way to spoil Cersei, mingled with frustration and the gut-feeling that, no matter how hard Jaime works, no matter how arrogant he appears to most other people, he will always lag behind that imaginary man Tywin Lannister wants him to be.

Jaime shakes his head slightly as the train takes another sharp turn.

Now is most definitely not the time to think about these things.

So Jaime focuses his attention back on Brienne, and her increasing fanning herself with her suit jacket.

“If I were you, I’d take off that blazer, by the way. I don’t think you’ll last until we get to Lion Gate Station that way…,” he says, biting on his tongue. “Or any further than that.”

Because maybe it’s _not_ wise to let Brienne know that he knows where exactly she gets off the train. The last thing Jaime needs is to have her think of him as a stalker.

“It’s fine,” Brienne replies a bit too hastily to be without meaning. Needless to mention that the beads of sweat rolling down her forehead to the sides of her temples are definitely betraying her, or the fact that her free hand is desperately fanning some warm air to her body hidden beneath the thick layer of the blazer.

“So, you are into knight’s tales?” Jaime goes on to ask, realizing that she will drift away mentally the moment on he stops interacting with her.

_Either she is really not at all interested, or she is surprisingly good at acting like the hard-to-get._

“Huh?” She looks at him rather puzzled.

“Galladon of Morne?” Jaime says, nodding at the book cover.

“Oh, yeah, _that_ …,” Brienne agrees, biting her lower lip. “It’s a very popular story where I come from.”

“I read it back in middle school, if I remember correctly,” Jaime tells her.  

_Though it may also have been **The Hedge Knight** … or any other book about knights, really. But it’s always good to have something connecting you two to talk about. Shared interests. Common goals. _

Jaime shakes his head ever so lightly. He has to stop letting his manager persona take over inside his head. Because those are _just_ the things he got hammered into his brain during his studies, and later on when he started at _Lannister Corp_. That is not at all helpful right now, though. Because this is _not_ the job, gladly. This is something real for once, and Jaime doesn’t want to spoil it.

Because it is real.

Or because he wants this to be real.

“Oh, you did?” she asks, now almost curiously.

_We are moving in the right direction at last!_

“Obviously, I wanted to become a professional knight following that reading lesson,” Jaime tells her with a grin spreading across his face.

Though that is true enough. As a boy, Jaime ran around the yards and gardens at the Rock with wooden sword and shield, re-enacting the tales of Ser Duncan the Tall or Ser Arthur Dayne, dreaming away of a heroic life.

_Only to get sucked into the not so heroic life of a manager._

“Sadly, they no longer have that as an actual occupation,” Brienne says with the faintest hint of a smile.

“What? You would have wanted to become a knight, too?” he chuckles, amused.

“I always thought it had a nice ring to it.”

The train takes another sharp turn yet again, forcing Jaime to quickly grab hold of one of the handles dangling above so not to fall over. It is only at that moment that he realizes that someone took his seat while he stood up to give the book to Brienne.

“First rule of public transportation: Never give up your seat, unless for the elderly or for pregnant women, because you are never going to get it back,” Brienne says, wrinkling her nose, noting now too that a teenager with baseball cap and baggy pants is now slouched on the seat where Jaime sat before.

“I should bear that in mind from now on, yeah,” he agrees, nodding his head. “I enter when it’s not yet so crowded, so I normally have a seat. But seems like the sharks are out for hunting down seats. Well, he will have to sit in the puddle of my own sweat, so I guess the joke’s on him in the end.”

“The seats don’t seem that comfortable anyway,” Brienne offers now almost sympathetically.

“They aren’t. They are a literal pain in the ass, actually,” Jaime tells her with a grin, focusing his attention back on her. He could care less about the faux leather seat upon which one slides around as though on a waterslide, or that lad pretending way too hard to be cool, because, in the end, he, too, buys from one of the ten stores down Pigrun Alley.

“I reckoned as much,” Brienne says simply.

“So yeah, maybe it’s better to keep standing.”

Jaime _really_ has to try hard not to smack himself, because this is _not_ the kind of smooth sweet-talking he can normally perform in absolute perfection, no matter the time, no matter the person or occasion.

Jaime never has any trouble to start conversation with people. He can just sink into them and fade out of them at will. It’s a skill he was seemingly born with, or so Tyrion told him a few times.

“There’s a sort of aura about you. Despite the fact that you are a Lannister, which obviously makes you or anyone else bearing that name despicable to most, people want to interact with you once you grant them your attention. That’s what will probably save your ass once you take over the family company – people _want_ to follow you because… well, you are you, with your stupid aura,” Tyrion once told him over too many glasses of red arbor following a certain incident in the room with the copying machines. “And if you weren’t my big brother whom I love way too much, I’d totally hate you for simply being born that way, you entitled asshole.”

However, right at this moment, Jaime can’t say that he feels the effortlessness he seems to have been born with, if his little brother’s assessment can be believed. Quite on the contrary, Jaime feels like a teenager making his first tender steps at trying to talk to members of the other sex with croaky voice, shuffling feet, and talking more to the ground than the person standing before him.

Though, for the record, Jaime was never such a boy or teenager. He really wasn’t. Yet another thing Tyrion would love to loathe him for if he didn’t love him as fiercely as Jaime loves him back in turn. The oldest Lannister son never had trouble talking to people, no matter the sex, no matter the occupation, position, or situation.

Yet, here Jaime stands and he has to make quite an effort tot keep up conversation.

Something that should be innate to him suddenly seems outside of himself.

 _Soon enough I’ll probably start to talk about tomorrow’s weather forecast_ , Jaime thinks to himself, trying hard not to snort at that very idea. Needless to mention that he did, in a way, but to talk about the heat seems almost inevitable in the sardine can of a train.

If anyone were to ask, though Jaime doubts that someone would anyway, he’d claim without a second of hesitation that the sticky heat is getting to him and that this is why he left all of his smoothness and charm somewhere between Red Keep and Guildhall of the Alchemists Station.

But there is no way of helping it, as it appears.

Jaime readjusts his grip on the stupid handle, which is already slick from his sweat, allowing his gaze to wander a bit. He still fails to understand just _how_ Brienne can even stand to walk around in that blazer in this lethal heat. That’d be the death of him right now, Jaime is sure of that.

“Might be,” Brienne says slowly.

 _Still not very talkative_ , Jaime thinks to himself, not yet sure if that amuses or annoys him. _If it isn’t a bit of both._

“Next station: Lion Gate. Exit to the right in the direction of travel. Please, mind the gap.”

Jaime considers for a long moment what to do next.

He could go on pretending that they are just two strangers who met on the train.

That may be perhaps the most thrilling concept, and maybe even the one coming with least trouble.

_It seems so effortless in the movies and TV shows._

A plot already pre-designed, a template to filter one’s life through, a familiar concept for Jaime, who’s had huge chunks of his life scripted by his father and the expectations of being the heir to the Lannister Empire more generally.

However, the train station plot, so often flickering across TV screens, has indeed a very nice ring to it, upon contemplation.

Intense eye contact leading to hasty smiles, leading to maybe a wave, maybe a tender, hesitant hello. Bumping into each other as the train takes a sharp turn at _just_ the right moment to fling the woman into the arms of the man ready to catch her, only to intensify the already growing feelings.

This is usually followed by a commercial break and a montage of the couple spending time together with toothpaste smiles, the woman running around in flower-patterned dresses and white slippers.

Then another commercial break about a new show no one wants to watch but will anyway, beauty products _powered by R’hllor_ that are claimed to make a granny look like a girl as green as summer grass if only she smudges on enough of that magical skin scream, and some ad about erectile dysfunction.

This is followed by the scene returning – after a quick and unnecessary recap of what just happened five minutes ago – to some sort of conflict in the narrative, threatening to tear the freshly in love couple apart. Mostly, it’s about someone having to leave the city, _running from the feels because oh the drama_.

The epic finale will then likely revolve around the station where they first met. Sometimes the man, sometimes the woman, _depends on the format_ , will hurry to the station to tell the other one not to go. He or she will believe that the loved one already left, only for the significant other to appear right behind him or her.

They kiss by the train station.

Suddenly, no one seems to bother about what happens to the apartment that was probably already purchased or rented at the town he or she was meant to go to.

All troubles are swept away with the swipe of the director’s pen.  

They vow to stay together forever and ever.

Cue for roll-credits.

The End.

There is something comforting about those formulaic narrative structures, however formulaic they may be.

In a way, it feels very familiar to how Jaime’s entire life went up until now: Almost everything was pre-determined, written in a script he was supposed to enact, and that he enacted eventually. Surely, some improv moments made it into the final cut, but the overall arc of the novel that makes up his life has always only existed under the red pen his father pressed to the paper.

_Though that in itself is not at all comforting, obviously._

That is the pathetically sad part about his life story, actually – because who wants to admit that he is living only half a life, the enactment thereof?

What _is_ comforting about those structures, however, is the idea that there is such a positive fiction out there, a promising one. That there is a bit of surprise – at least for the people living right within the scenes – in a world that is otherwise the equivalent of the walla-walla movement of the lips that extras do on-set to pretend that they are having actual conversation, when in fact they are only mouthing walla-walla-walla-walla in endless loop.

Or until the director screams “CUT!”

A life that is mostly background noise.

And a theatrical act.

To be sucked into another narrative, another story, one bearing meaning, in the hope that this will be a more compelling arc to tell, or rather to live in, seems very intriguing therefore.

However, pretending to dive into that fictional reality would entail that Jaime would have to keep up a theatrical act of that sort in front of Brienne, if only just to make this situation fit into the narrative that keeps playing over and over inside his head.

_And that would be a whole lot of work._

Needless to mention that Jaime still cannot be sure if Brienne doesn’t actually remember him after all, and just doesn't say anything, yet anyway. Something that would run contrary to that hopeful train station plot.

Or maybe Brienne is playing her own little game with him – _one can never know_.

_How does the saying go? Still waters run deep._

And judging by the blue of her eyes one can’t help but get lost in, those waters may run very, _very_ deep when it comes to this woman in particular.

As it appears, sometimes you have to choose, even when it’s just about conversing with a blonde woman you actually barely know, stuck in a moving sardine can slash sauna.

_Choose. Choose!_

“Uhm, I am sorry, but I just _have_ to ask this question,” he says, licking his lips tasting of salt.

“Yes?” Brienne blinks at him.

“Do you remember me by any chance?”

“I beg your pardon?” Brienne asks, curling her lips into a frown.

Jaime bites his lower lip.

_So much to that…_

“So you don’t, well, that’s…,” Jaime means to utter, mentally saying goodbye to his promising fictions, but Brienne cuts him off before he can go on any further, “I, I do. Mr. Lannister, from the meeting at _Lannister Corp_. yes?”

“So… you do remember me,” Jaime says, blinking.

_Now, there is wonder._

“Yes,” Brienne replies curtly, licking her lips, seemingly trying to determine whether she should say what is on the tip of her tongue, or swallow it back down, both urges fighting for dominance.

“And you?” Brienne eventually asks, not daring to look him in the eye as she speaks those two little words.

 _She sounds as though she just asked me for my number_ , Jaime can’t help but think to himself now with growing amusement.

“You surely left an impression, Miss Tarth,” he tells her with a teasing sort of grin. Brienne tears her gaze back up to meet his, her mouth shaping an “O” as she lets that information sink in.

“Oh,” is all she manages to say.

“Was there any certain reason why you didn’t, like, _react_ in any way? Like… wave, say hi…,” Jaime goes to ask, because he really, _really_ needs to know.

_However pathetic that need apparently is._

“It's not like you ever approached me either,” she argues defensively, which comes as a bit of surprise.

That woman keeps shapeshifting nearly constantly. One moment she is all blushes and curt replies, lowered gazes and trying to drift out of the conversation, and the next she stands up taller, stands up stronger, ready to pick a fight if someone gives her a reason for it. 

Jaime knows he has to pedal back or else Brienne will feel like he is blaming her for that non-conversation gap that’s been building up over the course of taking the train from the Red Keep to River Gate Station.

“That’s not what I meant to say, my apologies. I was just curious if I did something wrong, and that this was the reason why you didn’t want to interact whenever we saw each other on the train since then. I know we didn’t necessarily meet under the most fortunate circumstances, back when you came to _Lannister Corp_. You didn’t seem particularly pleased, especially in the beginning.”

_Sounds passable enough, right?_

And judging by her expression instantly changing back to surprise, it passed indeed.

“Oh, _that_ … no, that had nothing to do with it. At all. While I will admit that I was _very_ reluctant about that agreement at first, you had the rights of… _most_ of it, let’s say,” Brienne tells him, biting her lower lip in a way that Jaime would consider teasing if he didn’t know better.

“Just most of it?” he laughs. She lets out a small huff, shaking her head in almost amusement.

“Some of the points you had in the contract definitely needed revision, as you yourself admitted,” she points out to him, letting the businesswoman she is, no doubt, show for once.

“Well, gladly we managed to find a common ground anyway,” Jaime chuckles.

“I didn't believe it at first, but in the end, yes. The agreement is beneficial to both sides. Granted the changes that were made eventually.”

“Was there then another reason as to why you didn’t… interact,” Jaime goes on to ask.

“What is it to you?” she asks, a bit harsher than she seems to have intended, as Brienne almost instantly frowns at her own tone, though she proves to be too stubborn to pedal back despite her irritation.

“Just curiosity. And I want to be sure not to be at odds with one of our business partners, obviously,” Jaime tells her, hoping that this will, yet again, come across as passable enough.

Because, truth be told, he just really needs to know why his not so mysterious mystery woman from the train wouldn’t even look at him despite the fact that they know one another.

“We are not at odds…,” Brienne says curtly, but then her voice grows almost meek as she adds, “Unless _you_ think we are. Do you… think we are?”

“No,” Jaime replies with resolution in his voice.

“Then we are not,” Brienne agrees, nodding her head, sounding a bit relieved, even.

“It’s always a relief to rule that out.”

There is a moment of silence that has Jaime sweating even more than he does anyway. He already wades through his mind to find something else to converse about, when Brienne is the one to speak up, if hesitantly, “Well, if you _must_ know…”

“Most definitely,” he chuckles.

“If you _really_ must know…,” Brienne says, licking her moist lips. “I just don’t assume that people want to talk to me… unless they take the initiative. It’s just a thing I learned from experience.”

Jaime wrinkles his nose. He is quite sure that there is more to this than she lets on with this statement, but it may not be the right moment to try to get to the bottom of it. For that, they know each other too little at this point.

He has to be careful.

Even a doe standing as tall as Brienne does can be scared away with just the wrong noise or beam of light.

“Which is supposed to mean that you would have talked to me if I had taken the initiative?” he asks instead of his question of what experiences brought her to the notion that no one wants to talk to her unless they start talking first.

“Possibly,” Brienne replies slowly, almost cautiously now.

“Possibly as in ‘unless I had gotten a chance to flee to the next best station, even at the risk of having to jump halfway across the platform?”

“Something like that, yes,” she agrees, offering an uncertain grimace.

“Well, as things stand now, I took the initiative at last, so I assume there is no longer any resistance coming from your side?” Jaime asks in an easy voice, hoping that this will take some of the tension.

“There was no resistance coming from my side,” she assures him, shaking her head almost frantically this time.

“Just doubt,” he says in a small voice, offering a gentle smile.

“… Yes,” she replies hesitantly.

_Seemingly, that was one of those buttons again._

“I suppose that it’s fortune enough, then, that we could rule out this little misunderstanding. That means we can talk to each other without a doubt whenever we see each other on the train from now on,” Jaime says, surprised with himself once he hears his own hesitance.

Because Jaime Lannister is _never_ hesitant.

_Until now, at least._

Brienne looks at him as though he just started to talk Dothraki, and Jaime is not yet sure if she is surprised at the suggestion in general, or if she simply believes that he wouldn’t want to talk to her, for whatever the reason.

“Oh, uhm, that’s my station coming next,” Brienne says, eyes fixed on the screen, displaying the names of the stations coming up next.

“If I didn’t know better, I'd say that you are trying to escape this conversation right now, Miss Tarth,” he teases. Brienne whirls around to look at him, her big blue eyes unnaturally huge and vibrant.

“What? No, no! Of course not. It’s just…,” she stammers, to which he offers, “The heat.”

“Yes, _that_. And it’s my usual station. I wouldn’t want to ride the train longer than necessary,” Brienne says nervously.

“Makes sense.” He nods.

“Well, in any case, uhm… I thank you another time for, well, rescuing my book,” Brienne tells him, offering a feeble if honest smile this time.

Quite a charming smile, he may add. While not the prettiest one, it’s most definitely nice. Especially since it reaches all the way up to her eyes, making them even more livelier than they are by nature.

“It was my pleasure,” he replies, nodding his head.

“ _Really_? I try to bypass touching that ground. Gods know what makes it as sticky as it is,” Brienne snorts.

“Yeah, true. Not really,” he agrees only to assure her another time, “But it’s nothing.”

“Nevertheless, I greatly appreciate it,” Brienne argues, looking around nervously. “Well, uhm… I will have to wrestle my way to the exit now, Mr. Lannister.”

“Jaime, just Jaime.”

“… Jaime,” she repeats slowly.

He grins at her. It has a nice ring to it when she says his name. Jaime finds himself fancying the idea of having her say it very, very often from now on.

“Goodbye, then,” Brienne goes on to say, taking up her bag.

“I will see you here again tomorrow, I assume,” Jaime calls as she is about to turn away. Brienne cranes her neck to look at him in utter bewilderment for a long moment, but then offers a crooked grin. “Right. Until then… _then_.”

Brienne grimaces to herself, giving a small wave, before diving into the crowd.

“Next station: King’s Gate. Exit to the left in the direction of travel. Please, mind the gap.”

Jaime stands on his tiptoes to catch a glimpse of Brienne as she wades through the masses of drenched bodies. He can see her about five steps away from the exit, and it appears that this is about as strenuous as it looks like. Her blonde hair is a wild mess now as Brienne tries to push past people not willing to move out of the way.

And it is only at that moment that Jaime sees that the button of her blazer opened as Brienne had to push herself past one particularly meaty fellow, revealing very clearly the reason for her persistently wearing the equivalent of a straightjacket in this kind of heat.

Apparently, Brienne didn’t see such a weather coming, so she wears only a thin, white tank top underneath, which became almost fully translucent thanks to summer rain and perspiration.

The smile spreading across Jaime’s face is perhaps one of the darkest ones he has ever had up until now.

Brienne almost _dives_ out of the train, having to take quite a few staggering steps onto the platform to regain balance.

The doors close behind her and the train starts to rattle again.

Jaime can see her through the window as the summer rain keeps falling down on her. Brienne leans her head back slightly, running her fingers through her now completely wet hair, eyes closed, blowing out air through her nostrils.

And it is only now that she realizes that her blazer is open. Brienne’s eyes snap open at once as she fumbles for the jacket to hold it closed until she gets a chance to button it up again, the blush on her cheeks no longer just from the heat, but most definitely from the shame.

Jaime chuckles to himself.

_No bra? How daring of you, Miss Tarth._

However, the laughter dies on his lips the moment the train sets back into motion, shaking Jaime through _quite_ thoroughly, forcing him to make a few steps back and forth to keep his balance. And in just that motion Jaime is almost _painfully_ reminded that if he thinks about the image of Brienne leaving little to the imagination too long, _something_ will come back to life in the _least_ favorable place imaginable.

He sucks in a deep breath, counts to ten.

The image is still there, in all of its wonderful, revealing detail.

Thus, Jaime starts to think about the most boring things he can think of: His father’s lectures about the Lannister Empire, Cersei’s lamentations about how awful her life is – that normally does the job at once, Tyrion’s arbor-fueled whining about how Father apparently doesn’t respect him any more for shaking it up right in front of the patriarch’s eyes, close to his office no less, that day at the spa that scarred him for life…

_And we are good again. Phew._

Whatever this woman is doing to him, however she is doing it to him, Jaime can only say that one thing for certain – it doesn’t miss its effect.

Yet, despite his more than rocky attempt of approaching her in the first place seem to finally have a pay-off. Just like she remembers him after all, and, according to Brienne, she doesn’t hold anything against him.

_Unless that was only just a polite lie to escape the conversation…_

Jaime wrinkles his nose.

_She wouldn’t do that, would she?_

Brienne seems far too honest for that.

And if not all skill of being able to read people left him along with the gallons he seems to have perspired already, part of the blush on her cheeks didn’t come from the sticky heat alone, but was actually the kind of tinge of pink Jaime knows from the embarrassed girls who are too shy to speak up to him, though their complexion does it for them anyway.

_And isn’t that thought oh so sweet?_

“Next station: Fish Market. Exit to the left in the direction of travel. Please, mind the gap.”

Just one more station, and he will finally get out of this hell, to the comfortable space of his condo, all by himself.

Unless Jaime dies of dehydration first, which he cannot rule out at this point. Then he’d be the first Lannister to die on the _King’s Landing Metro_.

And Jaime can’t afford that now.

He _has_ to be on the train tomorrow.

Though hopefully without summer rain. Jaime is not sure if he is going to last through another ride through sticky hell, no matter how much of a urge he feels within himself to see her again.

_Though that see-through shirt would make up for some of it for sure. It did now already!_

It may be a very tiny step at this moment, but Jaime has the feeling that he is heading the right direction, and not just because he didn’t enter the wrong train, as he did more often, in the beginning of his _adventurous train journeys_ , than he’d like to admit.

Now the path is free to stop that madness, after that hurdle was finally taken, however badly. Jaime can start to have conversation with her, casual, without greater interferences, _just like normal people do._

_Whatever “normal” is anyway…_

He can now act as it is part of his nature, laid-back, effortless, entering conversations without any sign of awkwardness, easing in and out of them in all the ways his brother hates him for.

_Well, hopefully._

Because Jaime wants to see if there is a greater arc to that _adventurous train journeys_ he began, a narrative reaching beyond what would be the first meeting of the couple on the train.

Maybe it’s all for nothing anyway. Because there are still a million ways this could go wrong. Jaime may not turn out to her what she expected him to be. Brienne may turn out not to be what he imagined her to be. She may have a boyfriend, husband, children… though he saw no ring up until now, so Jaime takes some comfort in that knowledge for now.

Nevertheless, this may still turn out to be no more than a fleeting fiction.

An escape from the inescapable cycle of life running round and round again the same way the trains keep circulating throughout the city, travelling down familiar paths over and over.

_A sweet escape, though._

And who knows?

There’s always an ounce of truth in tales, why not this one?

Jaime looks around, hoping that the train will finally reach River Gate Station, allowing his mind to venture through those possible plots, however unlikely they may be, because a lot of them turn out to be very, very close to what he is forced to see on TV way too often.

A jolt to the left, a push to the right, and back again.

However, in the end, most plots turn back to that image of a see-through shirt, forcing Jaime into a mental mantra to somehow keep himself together:

_Father’s lectures about the family empire, Cersei’s whining about her poor life choices, Tyrion’s drunken complaints about a situation not changing that he makes no effort for to change, that client’s naked, sweaty, old body… Father’s lectures, Cersei’s whining, Tyrion’s drunken complaints, that client’s naked, sweaty, old body..._

“Next station: River Gate. Exit to the right in the direction of travel. Please, mind the gap.”

_Thank the Seven! Freedom!_

Though that leaves one question: Just how by the Seven Hells is he supposed to get out?!

Jaime lets out a long sigh as he bends down to grab his briefcase.

This may be a short walk, but it’s going to be a _more_ than unpleasant one.

He braces himself before diving into the mass of people to maneuver to the exit.

If anything good comes of it, then it is that this experience most definitely calms down the regions below his belt, because only one urge remains at this point – to get the hell out of that sardine can, towards a space offering _a bit_ more oxygen.

With much effort, Jaime manages to wrestle his way outside. Stepping on the platform, he breathes in much needed air. And despite the fact that the air is damp and heavy on his chest, it’s sweet relief compared to the gas he was forced to inhale in the compartment, which is slowly setting into motion as he catches his breath.

Jaime looks up into the sky, noting that finally, the summer rain stopped.

Reckoning that Brienne will not miraculously pop up behind him – _why would she_? – Jaime opens up another button of his sweat-soaked shirt, chuckling to himself softly once he realizes that his shirt starts to turn a bit translucent as well, even if not as much as Brienne’s by any means.

Jaime swings his briefcase over his shoulder, stuffing his other hand into the still damp pocket of his trousers, as he starts to walk towards the exit, whistling the melody of _Six Maids in a Pool_ to himself.

He will have to see what tomorrow’s program will have to offer.

For now, it’s only just commercial breaks, _hopefully without that stupid ad on guys failing to get stiff cocks_. Jaime would rather have his program interrupted for quite another advertisement, featuring a certain blonde woman desperate to hide herself in her blazer slash straightjacket.

Jaime laughs softly, picking up speed.

A train whooshes past him, offering, at last, a gentle breeze.

Sometimes you have to rescue fiction so that it can rescue you in turn.


	3. Guildhall of the Alchemists Station

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime has a perfect day that is anything but perfect. 
> 
> Strange things happen.
> 
> I suck at summaries and am done trying to pretend that I am any good at them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for sticking around against the odds of shitty update intervals on my behalf. 
> 
> To my defense, I was very busy with the so-called "real life," had assignments due, mingled with some stupid hand surgery that kept me from proper typing, aaaaaaand writer's block is strong again. The bitch. 
> 
> *whining off*
> 
> We are still looking at things through Jaime's lense alone, but I promise you, Brienne's POVs are not far away. I just thought it might be fun to have it build up that way. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you will enjoy this chapter! Thank you all so much for the awesome comments! They made my days more often than you'll ever know! 
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Jaime tries his best to act as though he is not aware of the small presence slouching in his office chair, watching him as he gathers his things to head home – because he has neither the time nor the patience to bother himself with what his younger brother may have to say.

Jaime has plans today, and they do not involve yet another round of playing family referee, which grew to be one of the primary reasons for Tyrion to seek him out at work, if not to ask him to cover for him and his adventures across the entire office building, much to not just their father’s annoyance but also his own.

“… Brother dearest, you yet have to tell me something,” Tyrion hums, still far too busy twisting in Jaime’s office chair, which he tends to claim for himself as though it was his throne whenever he finds it unoccupied upon entering Jaime’s office.

“I am already running late, so if you want to have a serious discussion, you will have to keep it until tomorrow, or speak to me on the phone after the game,” the older brother says, gathering some more folders he forgot to take along the other day already.

“Which is the exact reason for my wish to talk to you,” Tyrion argues, straightening up on in the seat, only to lean his arms on the table to rest his chin on his hands, looking somewhat dramatic. “You and the train… that is still the thing? Haven’t you had your fair share of public transportation by now? What’s the magic of that thing, you tell me?”

Jaime keeps stuffing his papers into his leather bag, letting out a long sigh. He has no intention of sharing that with his brother. He may love Tyrion fiercely, but Jaime reckons he would understand it as much as Cersei does – and there is no way that Cersei would ever develop an understanding for Jaime to seek out anything below their social rank, as far as he is concerned.

“No magic, really. Though it may be considered a miracle that no one got killed yet when trying to exit or enter through the back door of the last compartment of the train, because that thing has a poor motion sensor,” Jaime replies.

Tyrion makes a face at him, his irritation more than evident. “And that does not give you any second thoughts?”

“You _are_ aware that you are talking to a guy who enjoys more or less dangerous sports since he was a boy?” Jaime argues. “I think I can handle the dangers of public transportation.”

“But _why_ would you if you can choose… _not_ to?”

The older Lannister brother shrugs his shoulders. “I like it.”

“No one likes it. For that, I hear people complain about it by far too much,” Tyrion returns, shaking his head.

“How would you know? Have you tried it?”

Tyrion shudders. “I already get anxiety when I take economy class on the airplane.”

Jaime rolls his eyes. “And here I thought you were such a sociable person.”

“And I am, it’s just that I value my… space.”

“Not that you need much of it,” the older man snorts.

“Still the dwarf jokes?” Tyrion huffs.

“I still have so many years to repay you for the one-handed jokes when I had my hand injury. I did not forget about those,” Jaime tells him, pointing his index finger at him.

The injury was bad enough in itself, but he truly underestimated his brother’s creativity when it came to turning up with new jokes on a daily basis. Jaime always thought that, at some point, the younger man would have used up all jests relating to the topic, but far from it.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you are having the strangest of midlife-crises,” Tyrion says, shaking his head with a grimace. Jaime turns his head towards him with a frown. “Me? Midlife-crisis? Oh _please_.”

That is what people say to any guy around the age if he dares to not always stick to what convention may demand.

_Or rather, that is what people say who have no clue about you._

“Why else would a man who owns how many cars bother about sitting on a stinky train? And you see, because I am a good little brother, despite the fact that you shame me so by making nasty dwarf jokes about me, I want to express my concern.”

“Over the fact that I take the train,” Jaime huffs.

“Over the fact that you seem to be in a midlife-crisis.”

“I am _not_.”

“Then _why_?!” Tyrion argues, mimicking his brother’s tone.

Jaime checks his watch, if only to signal to the younger man that he really wants and needs to leave, though Tyrion seems very much intent on willfully ignoring that. Jaime rolls his eyes. “What reason am I supposed to give you that I didn’t provide already? I gain something from that… _experience_ , let’s put it like that.”

“You should take all of your frustration and take it down Silk Street,” the younger man argues. “Though if you do, please consider not taking the train, the ladies there have more class than that as matters of transportation.”

“Ah, so _that’s_ it,” Jaime exhales, leaning his head back. “You think I am in a midlife-crisis because my last relationship has been some time ago.”

_Because for you, dear brother, any frustration in life either stems from a quarrel with the family, alcohol abstinence, or sex abstinence._

“Half a year, in fact, and I suppose that there wasn’t much going on in the nether regions since then either,” Tyrion agrees, nodding his head.

“In contrast to some, I can very well live without it for as long as it takes,” Jaime says in a sing-song, closing his bag with a click of the lock.

“Which is why you compensate by taking the train,” Tyrion snorts.

“I do _not_ compensate,” Jaime groans, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “And now, I have to go, or else I won’t catch my train.”

Tyrion waves at him. “Then farewell, my weird brother.”

“Farewell to you, too,” Jaime replies, already motioning to the door when his younger brother, _sadly_ , speaks up again, “Is Cersei on the same floor right now?”

“I will _not_ bother to check.”

_I am not your damn referee 24/7. 24/6 should be enough, right? Right?!_

“Oh _please_. The Queen of Spite always wants to lynch me around the office. She looms behind every corner, ready to attack!”

“Train,” Jaime replies in a flat voice.

“You are useless.”

“I give the compliment right back to you,” the older man huffs. “And now I really have to be on my way. I need to watch the game tonight,, as I already told you before, but seemingly keep ignoring in favor of your own troubles.”

“Yet another thing I do not get the fancy of. Sweating people pushing against one another to get from one end to the other…,” Tyrion smiles. “Though _that_ , upon reflection, may be why you are so much into trains now. It reminds you of football.”

“I bet you will figure it out one day,” Jaime huffs, winking at the younger man. “Bye now.”

“Bye. Don’t get killed by the train.”

“I surely will try.”

Jaime makes his way to the elevator, glad to catch it just in time before the door closes.

 _The training at the train station seems to be good for something after all_.

Because you lose your natural hesitance to intervene, while at the same time get a sense of when your arm is going to be eaten by the door if you try to stick your hand in at the last second, or so Jaime found out over time.

Jaime watches as the red numbers on the display count down – that building has _way_ too many stories in his humble opinion – reckoning that if he speeds up to the station a bit, he should be on the train at just the right time to get his usual spot.

_And if so, that would make this a wholesome good day, which is an even rarer occurrence than a Lannister family get-together without drama._

That is unless Brienne is not on the train, _of course_ , because then it would still have been a nice day, but surely, the woman on the train poses a vast improvement to Jaime’s mood ever since he managed to get back in touch with her. While he is not yet sure where that fascination stems from, Jaime cannot find it in himself to bother to care too much about the reasons why, and only ever relishes the fact that it somehow makes his mood lighter these days.

And that is why Jaime sincerely hopes to have her wind up on the train yet again, to complete a perfect day.

He left his condo on time, didn’t oversleep, the to-go coffee he treated himself at the station was not nearly as bad as it was some many times when he was in dire need of caffeine to pull through another day of office boredom. While _Stagbucks_ still serves the best coffee around King’s Landing, if at ridiculous prices, the brown brew that came in the Styrofoam cup this morning was hot, actually tasted like coffee, and had no weird aftertaste thanks to stale water, which he had to learn actually is a thing at this train station, which has the coffee taste as though it was brewed right in the toilet.

After a passable coffee, Jaime entered the train without being pushed around or having to push away, got his usual spot. The sun shone pleasantly over the rooftops of the city, making this busy space momentarily seem frozen in time as it drowned in shades of orange and yellow, the skyscrapers almost halfway consumed by the light, a sight you will never catch if you take the interstate or the highway, which has you only ever peak up to those monstrous buildings from below, making you feel small and unimportant, lost and not found in the big city. By contrast, that morning proved to Jaime that there can be something strangely uplifting in a tuna can of a vehicle, so long you capture a glimpse of the city being swallowed by forces greater than traffic and the pressure to be on schedule, on time, one step ahead, to never look back, only forward, forward, forward.

Once at the office, Jaime’s luck seemingly continued seamlessly. He didn’t run into Cersei at all, which he still considers a fortune after she supposedly threw an anger tantrum upon her being denied a higher position within the company yet again, and that despite the fact that their father told her explicitly and repeatedly that he would not create that position just to serve her ego.

_Which in turn, very much angered her ego._

Or so he heard. Jaime only ever listened to people talking about it, Tyrion boasting about it, and mentally hearing his father’s sighs of disapproval over his children not functioning the way they are supposed to.

Instead of playing referee for the dear family, Jaime took the liberty for himself to make some business calls, which ensured that no one would disturb him. If you have Daenerys Targaryen from across the Narrow Sea on the line, people around the office will know that they run the danger of public lynching at the hands of the CEO and patriarch of the company if they dare interrupt such vital business negotiations. Not that the woman is a particularly spectacular business partner to talk to in Jaime’s humble opinion – he finds it incredibly irritating that the young boss insists on having all of her titles repeated throughout conversations for _some_ damned reason. And in general, or so Jaime thinks, the _Mother of Dragons_ should rather have her advisors handle the affairs coming up in the business calls as of late, until she matured a bit more to grow into the role she will most certainly fulfill wonderfully one day, but simply lacks the expertise for at this point of time.

Not that Jaime would ever say so out loud, of course, he is not suicidal. And neither does he take the liberty for himself to criticize people not part of his team at the company. Though of course, that doesn’t stop him from having opinions.

The oh so important business calls were followed by lunch, wherein Jaime decided against the cafeteria and treated himself one of those fancy fajita things from that food truck run by Hot Pie down the block, which is an insider tip – or so internet research once told him.

_And for once, the internet did not disappoint._

And so, if everything continues to go according to plan, Jaime will have some nice chat with Brienne before heading home to watch the game, which he will thoroughly enjoy the way it is supposed to be: With beer, snacks, putting on all that ridiculous fan merchandise he gathered over the years, and hollering at the TV.

_A perfect day indeed._

Jaime speeds up the last set of stairs outside the building, taking two at a time, before continuing his walk down the street leading to the main station, readjusting the leather bag so to have his hand free to check the time. He speeds up a bit despite the fact that he should arrive on point even if he didn’t, but experience taught Jaime by now that the watches run differently at the train station some many times.

Time is, after all, a rather complicated concept, and train stations prove to be perfect examples of how the same time can take on different shapes: While five minutes may stretch into hours when you wait for your train to arrive at last, it may seem like it’s over by far too fast when you need to catch your train back home, and you are still at the other end of the station, wading through masses of people not letting you cut through.

Jaime walks down the remaining stairs leading to the entrance hall, allowing his bag to hang over his shoulder.

Entering the station always feels to him like entering a sub cosmos, a realm that likely none of his family ever set foot upon for matters of prestige or ego, _if not a combination of both_. And strangely so, Jaime found something uplifting in that: That this is a kind of secret knowledge that he has, but that his family lacks.

_They don’t know about that little cosmos, and in that cosmos, all of their drama means nothing. And isn’t that oh so sweet?_

It’s his little space of in-betweenness, of transgression, bridging between home and work, private and professional, peace and family war, himself and his work persona.

Jaime reaches the metal ticket machines, thrusts his ticket into the card slot, and pushes past once the metal pieces start moving aside, instantly caught by the whooshing sound of trains leaving and arriving, trespassing, running circles, round and round, thereby establishing a curious continuity in a fast-changing, never-standing-still space such as the big city.

Jaime walks through the entrance hall, checks the displays above his head for a potential delay, but no such thing gladly, so he walks up to platform 5, past buzzing vending machines, photo booths, scribbled on and halfway torn down posters dating back to at least five months ago, and people hurrying to and fro, until he is out on the platform, the air pleasantly catching in his hair, cooling his scalp, which is a bit sweaty already thanks to the still rather hot weather, even if not nearly as bad as it was the other day.

 _Though then again, the heat was well worth some sight that got me in_ _turn_ , Jaime thinks to himself, a smirk flashing over his face. Just the thought of it has Jaime wind back to his inner mantra – because that is still too fresh, by far too fresh.

Truly, that woman has been way too often on his mind as of late, and in particular that very image of Brienne by the train station short before realization dawned on her that she revealed something that she almost died for before to keep hidden under her blazer.

The screeching of metal on metal announces the arrival of the train even before the lady on the loudspeaker confirms it in a monotone voice: “RT 63 in direction of Fishmonger’s Square is arriving now. Please keep a distance for your own safety.”

The train whooshes past him, sending Jaime’s hair tumbling around wildly. Jaime runs his fingers through his moist curls as the vehicle comes to a halt and the doors open, people pouring out of it like honey, clogging by the entrance until they spread at the speed of light, almost flying over the platform and the stairs to catch the next train or make up for the time that the train lost for being late.

Once no more people get spat out by the train, Jaime makes inside the equivalent of a gigantic tuna can, spotting his favorite seat at once, and claiming it before anyone else can get to the idea.

His head bobs back and forth as the train sets into motion. A smirk flashes over Jaime’s lips once he sees some fans of his favored team, dressed in all white fan merchandise. One guy even sporting a self-made cloak cut from what looks like a cheap, white towel. Though Jaime will give that guy that much, he is trying wholeheartedly.

“Next station: Guildhall of the Alchemists. Exit to the right in the direction of travel. Please, mind the gap.”

Jaime whips his head around when suddenly the tall blonde woman normally only ever entering at Cobbler’s Square hops on the train, dressed in casual business wear, jeans with a loose, olive shirt and an unbuttoned, loosely cut, black blazer, though the shirt is definitely not see-through this time.

_Pity._

And Jaime’s surprise keeps growing bigger as he finds himself waving at her before he can even bother to think about whether that is smooth in any way, though, to her credit, she doesn’t just turn around and bolt away, but instead makes her way up to him as the train starts moving, hooking her hands through the yellow, triangular handles above, so not to fall over when the train takes its turns.

“Mr. Lannister,” she greets him as she motions closer.

“Jaime,” he corrects her, giving her a smile, which she only very hesitantly returns. “How many times until we agree on that?”

“You must excuse, matter of habit,” Brienne says, the corners of her mouth nervously flexing a few times. “When I know people from work, I tend to think about them along those lines.”

Jaime wrinkles his nose. While he knows it a thing of ridiculousness, he would rather not be put into _that_ category at this point. He rescued her book from sure death.

_That should put me apart from the common business monkey to some degree at least._

Brienne runs her long fingers through her short-cropped hair to sleek it back over her head. “In any case, I hope all is well?”

“Oh, yes, thanks,” Jaime says with a smirk. “You?”

“Can’t complain.”

He snorts. “I tend to think you wouldn’t complain even if there was a reason to.”

Brienne tilts her head to the side. “That… may be true, upon reflection.”

“So, where do you come from and where are you heading to?”

She curls her lips into a frown. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, isn't that the big question one always has to beg while riding the train? Where do we come from, where do we go?” he sighs, wanting to mentally slap himself.

_Just what is the matter with that anyway? Where did all of that smoothness I can bring up when talking to Daenerys Targaryen to convince her of trade agreements go to?_

This should be easy now, but still, it isn’t – and that despite the fact that this is supposed to be Jaime’s little perfect day.

“You just saw me get on the train at Guildhall Station, did you not?” she huffs matter-of-factly.

“And that's not what I meant. I was rather referring to where you came from _before_ hopping on the train. Are you coming home from work, perhaps?” Jaime questions.

“No, I am working from home, actually,” Brienne replies.

“Do you?” Jaime asks, tilting his head.

“Yeah, we don’t have an external business building here in King’s Landing. I do everything online, save for business meetings that I hold in person, obviously,” she goes on to explain. Jaime chuckles at that, “I already feared you turned into one of those people who believe that video conferences, unless due to being apart by a thousand miles or so, are a good thing.”

Brienne rolls her brilliantly blue eyes at him. “Gods forbid. People just want to feel important when they overuse that matter of communication. I once had a client who sincerely asked me for a video conference despite the fact that the office buildings were… three blocks apart.”

“What did you do?” Jaime asks.

“I told him that I ran some technical difficulty and that he should please hold on, ran over to the building and knocked on his door.”

“Really?” he laughs.

“Oh yes,” Brienne says almost proudly, but then catches herself, suddenly looking a bit ashamed of her own boldness. “I mean, I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t know that client for longer. I value professionalism very highly, but since I knew him, I thought it was alright to highlight that this is much better. Needless to mention that such communication nearly always results in frozen images and wonky internet connection.”

“It is always a relief to learn that someone shares my very sentiment,” Jaime tells her with a grin. “So… office work from home. Interesting concept.”

“Not so much a concept as it is a necessity as of late. As I said, we don’t have a business building here. It would be ineffective to rent one only just the few employees who operate here, myself included. That will only become topic again if we decide to locate a branch here,” Brienne replies, sounding very much like the businesswoman Jaime first made the acquaintance of over at the family company.

However, as he keeps studying her expression, Jaime can see something shift in Brienne’s mimic, her gaze travelling past him to focus on the window instead as she speaks again: “Like this… it works pretty well. I work for some hours of the day, make the necessary phone calls and business plans and occasionally meet up with clients or potential business partners. Other than that… I guess I wouldn’t ever have to leave home, if I didn’t get cabin fever at some point.”

Jaime laughs. She laughs, too, if still as hesitantly as ever, which has Jaime wonder what a wholehearted laugh of hers would sound like.

“I mean, it’s fascinating, thinking about it,” she goes on, licking her lips. “You can order food online, and it’s delivered right to your door. You can pay online and you don’t even have to open the door for people necessarily. You know, you just attach the stag bills to the door or leave them under the doormat, or you choose the online tip option a lot of stores use by now. And all that so that you don’t even have to leave your home! But it goes even further than that! You don’t have to interact with people! At all! I find that quite fascinating, considering that back in the day, you wouldn’t have gotten anywhere if you didn’t talk to the peasant who had the cow from which you got your milk.”

“Yeah, but it’s also a killer for communication,” he sighs with a smirk.

“That’s true,” she agrees. “When I moved here, I essentially didn’t leave home at first.”

“Why so?”

Brienne rolls her broad shoulders. “I just didn’t know how to live here.”

“You were here before, for the business meeting we two had, though,” Jaime argues, frowning.

“And _that_ was something _entirely_ different. If you come for a week at the most, you rent yourself a hotel room. You don’t live in the city. You just see clients, head back and forth, maybe eat at the hotel’s restaurant, order something from the room service, or get yourself something greasy from one of fast-food restaurants. Followed by TV and sleep. And once the week is over, you take the plane back home. You don’t live in a city so long you don’t actually own or rent a place there that is not a hotel,” Brienne explains, but then seemingly coils back upon realizing that she let on a rather private matter, quickly adding a shy, “At least that is… my experience.”

“So, since you moved here, you took some time to adjust. I know that song myself, if that is you any comfort,” Jaime jumps in before the woman can withdraw into herself again. “When I relocated from Casterly Rock to here, I was not at all thrilled.”

_Not that much changed about that since… though taking the train here seems to have some pay-off at last._

“Neither was I. I am not a fan of the big cities,” Brienne admits.

“Why? Most people ache to make it in big city,” Jaime argues, amused to hear someone voice a sentiment he assumes a lot more people share in than they let on. Because truth be told, once you live in the city, you want to get out of it. And so long you live outside the city, you want nothing but get inside.

In the end, there always seems to be a discrepancy between what you expect something to be like and what it is like indeed.

Brienne leans her head back, letting out a sigh, pondering her answer. “I don’t know… Sometimes it feels like… I am estranged from the world so long I am in a place such as this. No matter what we do, no matter where we stand, we are just strangers in the end… And that is something I only ever felt as strongly as I did when I moved to the capitol. Back on Tarth, I knew someone nearly everywhere I went, and I took comfort in that. But here… I am a stranger. And it didn’t occur to me until I started living here that this is… strange to me.”

Brienne glances out the window pensively. Jaime watches her, surprised to hear someone voice something that he himself felt when he moved to King’s Landing all those years ago. He tended to believe that he was just being foolishly sentimental about leaving home for the family business, for the family, but now that Brienne says something like that has Jaime believe that, perhaps, it was more than just the loss of the place holding so many childhood memories that had him feel as though he never really belonged to the place supposedly his home now.

He gave up being familiar to the life of a stranger.

“As a result, I found myself caving in at my new apartment, surrounded by unpacked boxes,” Brienne admits, her eyes still fixed on the city whooshing past them outside. “I didn’t know what stores to go to, I didn’t know my neighbor’s name safe for what was written on the nametag outside the door… I don’t know, I just felt literally out of place. So, ordering things online and caving in seemed like the easiest option to come around. I set up my online life and paid the extra money that it costs, because apparently, money has never been my problem, which is one of those privileges I enjoy in contrast to most. At first, I thought this was a really great idea… though really, it wasn’t.”

“That's the issue with humans,” Jaime agrees. “We are social beings.”

“I know,” Brienne sighs with a small smile, turning her attention back towards him, her fingers curling more tightly around the yellow handle above her head. “The thing is… Most of the time, I want to be left alone, I am fine off by myself. I don’t need someone to mother me or to keep me company, I always find my way around, but… sometimes even I need interaction, I had to realize. And it didn’t occur to me until I moved here. Before, I only ever lived on Tarth and at Oldtown for as long as I attended college, but there… you have roommates and all that. However, here now in King’s Landing… there is no one familiar anymore. And that means that you need people to talk to, you have to seek them, in order to get out of the strangeness. And that can’t always be only just my father on the phone.”

“Good grief, I would rather die than always have to talk to my father,” Jaime snickers.

“Oh, I love talking to my father, but I just realized that it’s not… _enough_.”

“Well, stands to reason. I just don’t like to talk to my father most of the time because he happens to be Tywin Lannister. And Tywin Lannister is… no company you want to keep for longer than is necessary,” Jaime explains with a grimace, frowning at himself for stating that out in the open. While he knows that no one on the train cares about him and his personal life – _for what are we strangers here after all_? – he got it hammered into the very fiber of his being since a young age that private matters, matters of the family, are not to be discussed to the outside.

Yet, here Jaime sits, on a train, talking to a woman he still barely knows, addressing the issues with his father, listening to her private problems with the big city.

 _Strange indeed_.

“… I am sorry to hear that,” Brienne says sympathetically.

“Oh, don’t bother. For that, I enjoyed some many privileges. I won’t complain. I know people have it far worse than me,” Jaime huffs, waving his hand in her direction. “Did you make his acquaintance the last time you came to the company?”

“Only ever briefly when we had the negotiations. To me, he seemed very… professional,” Brienne says with a grimace. Jaime laughs at that. “Cold-blooded is what my siblings and I generally use to refer to him, but that seems to include a good portion of professionalism, I will grant you that much. But anyway, I drifted off-topic, please do go on.”

“I don’t have to…,” she means to say, but he is quick enough to interrupt her, “We still have some time left until we reach Cobbler Square, and then it will be far more crowded. We should enjoy having the opportunity to talk without having to yell.”

“Well, so… I thought I could just as well dedicate my time to something useful to battle… my problems, so… I am training a football team a couple of times throughout the week.”

“Oh my God, you have a good heart, too,” Jaime says, clutching at his chest dramatically.

Brienne sucks her lower lip into her mouth. “Not necessarily. I just want to do something useful – and I like sports, so this combines things for me.”

“That’s more than I can say about myself,” he snorts, to which Brienne replies with a frown, “But doesn’t your family run a rather big charity for the education of children coming from low income areas? I thought I read about that on the website…”

“Oh, we do a lot of charity work, no doubt, but you see… my father wants that in his folder to appear as benevolent. It helps the business. He would not do it if he didn’t profit from it in some capacity. He is that professional after all.”

_Really, it’s the strangest of things, how it can be easier to talk to more or less strangers about the familiar problems than it is to talk to the family about the familiar problems._

And yet, here Jaime finds himself, tackling the familiar problems he normally keeps under closed lids, behind closed doors, behind high walls.

“Well… I tend to think that so long something good happens for the children and they are not getting less help or are even cheated out of the help offered to them for matters of prestige… I see less problems with that than not helping at all,” Brienne says after a longer moment.

“I always feel bad because I know the family only ever does it for matters of prestige,” Jaime admits rather feebly.

“The children won’t mind. And that is what matters in the end.”

Jaime rewards her with an appreciative smile, before he decides that it was enough of talk about familiar problems.

_My perfect day will not involve self-pitying if I can help it._

“So… what sports do you do for charity work?” he asks, hoping that this will put the focus back on what he really cares about right at that moment, which is standing right in front of him, holding on to the yellow handle as she tries to balance whenever the train takes a turn.

“Football,” Brienne replies.

“Really?” he asks with a grin.

She rolls her shoulders. “I used to play back during High School.”

“Coincidentally, I did the same,” Jaime chimes.

For that they are strangers, they seem to share quite some common ground, no matter that they didn’t set foot upon it together.

“That is hardly a coincidence,” she argues, which has Jaime frown. “What now?”

Brienne cocks an eyebrow at him. “Let me guess… quarterback?”

“Yes, why?”

She shrugs. “You just seem the type.”

“Oh, Miss Tarth, now you do me no justice,” Jaime argues, chuckling. “I don’t have a type of that sort. There are no men like me, only me.”

“And in my experience, a lot of people want to believe that they are one of a kind when really they are not, Mr. Lannister.”

Jaime snorts in amusement. He quite likes that new tone of hers, or rather, the opportunity to discover it. It is yet again one of those things that people around him don't know. And no matter how foolish that may seem, he enjoys that.

And he wants more of it.

“So… your friends are now some teenagers in puberty searching for an outlet for their frustration?” he jokes.

“Not really. It's supposed to distract them so to keep them away from other things. It provides structure, and if everything pans out, we can enlist them as a team and have them compete. The idea is to eventually have them raise money for themselves, if everything goes according to plan. I also want to have a scout come by. There are some truly promising candidates that I think could actually make it a career if they wanted.”

“You have such a good, sweet heart that it gives me a toothache,” Jaime huffs, making a face.

“Will you now give me a speech about how I am trying to be a saint? I am not,” Brienne grumbles.

“I didn’t mean to imply that,” he argues, gesturing at her defensively.

“I gain something from it, and that is the rather selfish part of it. It is my one source of social interaction that I chose for myself. Without it, I’d be completely at a loss. I just had to get out, be around people,” she admits.

“I understand that. And truth be told, you are doing something good with that instead of just trying to make some loose friends, which is more or less the norm in the social circles we trespass through.”

“Next station: Cobbler’s Square. Exit to the left in the direction of travel. Please, mind the gap.”

“Oh, the people will come flooding now,” Jaime grunts.

“Oh yes, the game is on tonight,” Brienne agrees.

“Small wonder that you watch as well.” He smirks. “Now that I know that you used to play.”

“Same for you, then,” Brienne concludes.

“So… how did you come from your charity work to the idea of taking the train?” Jaime goes on to ask. “We both know that you would not require it, right?”

“Neither do you,” she points out to him. Jaime leans his head back slightly with a smirk.

No, as his brother reminds him, he doesn’t have to take the train, and neither does she, but for some reason, both end up in the gigantic tuna can, day in, day out, trying to find something, travelling down the same route over and over.

And the question still remains if there is something to be found on strangely familiar trails creeping through the big city.

“For me, it was a bit of an experiment,” Jaime admits eventually, turning his head back around to Brienne, who leans her head to the left with a quizzical look. “Well, it was one for me as well.”

“And what did _you_ mean to test?”

“Not so much test as it was… something _therapeutic_ ,” Brienne replies slowly, likely aware that, to most other people, that sounds rather ridiculous.

“What would be therapeutic about _that_ here?” Jaime asks, amused, gesturing around the crowded wagon.

“I hate it to be in cramped places with a lot of people in them. Actually, this is making me really nervous, so…,” Brienne says, but Jaime interrupts her with a grin, “So you just go with the sardine can?”

She lets out a dry laugh. Yeah, I just go with the sardine can. I consider it exposure therapy of sorts. If I am more or less comfortable in _such_ a situation, then I guess there is nothing that can shock me anymore. Or that was the thought I had back when I decided to start taking the train instead of using the car. To… how do people always say? To loosen up at last. _Something_ like that.”

As if on cue, the people come rushing in as the doors open, the entire train shaking under the weight, the pushing and pulling of the crowd making the space within the wagon grow smaller by the second.

“Still therapeutic?” Jaime laughs as Brienne finds herself sandwiched between a woman in her mid-forties making wild gestures while on the phone, almost smacking Brienne across the face if not for her tall frame, and a beansprout of a teenager matching Brienne in height, munching some greasy burger that is threateningly close to the blonde woman’s clothes.

“We can trade places if you want?” he adds.

_I should probably play up the gentleman card a bit more prominently, right?_

She glowers at him, if amused. “I am fine, thank you.”

“Don't say I didn’t offer.”

“Duly noted.”

Jaime frowns as the train sets back into motion. “Is it just me or is the train sounding weird?”

“Maybe too many people in it,” Brienne comments. “That train is old.”

“Might be.” Jaime nods.

Brienne studies him for a moment, contemplating, but then questions, “So, I forgot to ask…”

He looks at her expectantly. “Yes?”

“Where do you come from and where do you go?” she asks with a grin, to which Jaime can’t help but laugh, “Ah the big questions now also coming my way. I suppose I had that coming. Well, I am coming straight from work and am now heading home.”

“What station is that?” Brienne asks.

“River Gate.”

To his surprise, Brienne stares at him as though he just said that he lived at the Red Keep Station and just enjoyed to ride around for no reason.

“What?” she gapes.

“Why are you frowning now?” Jaime replies, now grimacing himself.

“So… you take _this_ train to get to River Gate?” Brienne questions, licking her lips pensively.

“Why shouldn’t I? It gets me from the Red Keep to there,” Jaime argues. “Has been for quite some time.”

“But that’s seven stations,” she argues.

Jaime furrows his eyebrows at her. “So?”

He watches as she takes out her cellphone, her fingers dancing over the display routinely. Brienne types in a few things before turning the device over to him. Jaime leans forward to look at the map flashing at him in bright colors.

“See?” Brienne says, pointing at the screen. “You could spare yourself three stations if you took this train here only until Cobbler’s Square, then got off and took the train RT 98 leaving only five minutes thereafter in direction of Kingsroad Station, which would take you to River Gate over Muddy Way Station and Fishmonger’s Square. That would save you at least… fifteen minutes if not more.”

“What? No, that can’t be,” Jaime insists. “I checked the plans by the station. That was the route I was supposed to take.”

“The app says otherwise,” Brienne points out to him.

“What app?”

“You don’t have the local train app? That is one of the actual advantages of the big city – technological advances even in the still rather primitive business of public transportation,” Brienne snorts. “You just type in the locations and it tells you what trains to take. It even gives you updates on delays and such.”

“I thought that checking the plans by the station would suffice,” Jaime grumbles, sucking the inside of his left cheek into his mouth.

“Which they don’t. Have you ever checked from when they date back?” she replies, the sarcastic undertone very evident.

“They are _not_ up-to-date?”

“They haven’t been for the past years.”

“How would _you_ know?”

_And how comes I don’t know despite the fact that I live here for how many years now?_

“Because I read the dates. And apparently, the app comes with some extras, such as explaining that the route for the RT 98 was established two years ago. So… you could have saved yourself quite some time if only you bothered about the app or checking the dates on the faded plans in the stations,” Brienne says, offering an amused, yet sympathetic look.

“I am more of a traditional guy. I wanted to get the whole train experience. I thought that included trying to make sense of the plans,” Jaime huffs.

“That is truly… romantic thinking right there.”

“I quite liked the idea. Don’t laugh,” he says with a smirk creeping up his lips.

_Though really, that is laughable, thinking about it._

And that despite the fact that Jaime tends to pride himself being a rather realistic sort of guy when it comes to most aspects of life. Surely, he has an unhealthy amount of idealism despite that notion, but other than that, he tries his best to look at things from a rational perspective.

However, he didn’t bother about rationality when he started his little experiment, because truly, that was not at all rational, but the search for something he still doesn’t know the shape of after all this time.

“You are talking to the woman who does this for therapeutic reasons. I will be the last one to comment on this,” Brienne argues, offering a small smile, before she stuffs the device away again, biting her lower lip as she does. “In any case… then I suppose that will be the last time we will see each other on the train, unless we see each other in passing.”

Jaime blinks at her. “You mean to say?”

“I normally get on the train by Cobbler’s Square. Today was more of an exception because I had some business to handle around here, for the football team and the registration. So… from now on, you will probably mean to take the train bringing you home the fastest, which means that we won’t see each other that often anymore,” Brienne explains, and if Jaime didn’t know any better, he’d be inclined to think that there is a pang of regret in her voice.

_Which is more than I expected at this point._

“Oh, I think I actually grew fond of this routine,” Jaime replies hurriedly. “You see, I am a creature of habit. I don’t like to change my routines once I have them.”

“They would save you valuable time, though,” Brienne argues.

 _They would actually deprive me of valuable time I can spend finding my little enjoyments on this very train_ , Jaime thinks to himself, but doesn’t say. That would really be by far too awkward to say out loud to her right at that moment.

“So… just for matters of nostalgia you spend more time in the sardine can?” she questions, not buying that at all.

“It’s as you said, romanticism is what brought me here in the first place. And I hate to hurry from one station to the next. Then I rather sit here and… enjoy the view in a perhaps not economic but nonetheless overly romantic way,” Jaime tells her.

Brienne cocks an eyebrow at him. “Enjoy the view?”

“Why yes, who wouldn’t want to keep looking at such wondrous occurrences, such as this young man failing at dinner?” Jaime chuckles nodding roughly in direction of the teenager still losing half of his wrap to the floor, only barely missing Brienne’s shoes whenever a sauce-dipped, soggy lettuce leaf falls to the ground with a smacking sound.

“You have an odd sense of romanticism,” Brienne comments.

“What did I say? I am one of a kind after all!” Jaime chimes.

Brienne opens her mouth to say something, when suddenly the train screeches as it comes to a halt, almost throwing half the passengers standing over. Brienne holds on tight to the handles above. Jaime holds on to his seat.

“Are you alright?” he asks when the train comes to stand and Brienne pulled herself back into a straight position.

“Yes, yes. You?”

“ _I_ was seated.”

“Well, judging by that guy over there,” Brienne says, nodding at a man with a rather big tummy on the ground, looking like a turtle turned upside down as he gets help to get back up. “That is no guarantee for safety.”

“Oh man, my wrap,” the teenager says lazily. Brienne and Jaime turn in his direction to see the tortilla wrap spread on the ground.

“That boy has reflexes,” Jaime huffs. “Realizing it _just now_.”

Brienne rolls her eyes at him, not approving of his making fun of the teenager, but Jaime is fairly sure that the guy wouldn’t even realize if he got insulted, or even if he did, take about half an hour before remembering that it actually happened.

“You will not believe this, Celine! The train just stopped without a warning!” the woman next to Brienne shrieks over her phone. “I should see about ways of suing them once I get out of this hell. The Seven will know what could have happened to me! I was that close to breaking my ankle… no, I did not, but it could have happened! Celine, I am telling you, this is absolutely irresponsible.”

“What was the guy supposed to do? Hit the brakes slowly and then crash into something or what not?” Jaime mutters to himself, though Brienne catches what he says and smiles in agreement.

“I still wonder what the issue is now,” she says, looking up to the loudspeakers.

As if on cue, a shrill noise blares from the loudspeakers, announcing the announcement.

“Dear passengers. We excuse the sudden stop, but due to unexpected damage to the trail, the train will not continue to travel any further than Lion’s Gate. We will set the train back into motion in a couple of minutes, but will only ever travel at a slow pace to ensure everyone’s safety. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Celine! Did you hear that?!”

“How would she?!” Jaime huffs. “She is on the other end of the fuckin’ line.”

_So much to my perfect day._

Brienne turns in his direction again. “Well, at least we are not stuck here for long.”

“Thank the Seven!” Jaime calls out joyfully. “I don’t fancy dying from heatstroke in here! Seriously, one should think that they watch out for those things in the morning, before they ride them.”

“Yeah, no, they rarely do. I remember that one train I took had a hole. In the door. And no one seemed to have realized until someone told them,” Brienne utters. “As I said, the app is the only thing that is fancy about the public transportation here in King’s Landing, as far as I can judge.”

Jaime laughs, leaning back in his seat. “Man, this is mad.”

“Well, if they are closing down the entire rail, that means I am walking home,” Brienne mutters. “From Lion’s Gate, there is just that train leaving at regular intervals. The RT 31 coming over Gate of the Gods only arrives every hour because it comes from outside the city and thus from the more rural areas.”

“You can hail down a cab,” Jaime argues.

“Yeah, I could, but I won’t.”

“I mean, it’s not like money would be the problem,” Jaime argues, bobbing left and right slightly as the train sets back into motion again, though he reckons he could walk faster than the vehicle rides at this point, travelling at the speed of a drunken snail.

“Most definitely not,” Brienne huffs. “I just hate cabs with a burning passion.”

“Why would you hate taxis? What about that whole exposure therapy thing you have going on?”

“Exposure therapy is one thing, but it’s… I hate the smells in taxis, among other things.”

For emphasis, she shudders.

“Even more than those on the train?” Jaime snorts, amused.

“In fact. And I had, let’s say, a _traumatic experience_ with taxi drivers,” Brienne explains.

“What happened?” he asks with a grin.

She shakes her head. “I am not sharing that story.”

Brienne glances out the window briefly as the Lion’s Gate Station comes into sight at last.

“You can’t tease me about that and then back out,” Jaime argues, pulling her attention back to him.

“I am not telling you. Point is, it was traumatic for me. And now I am no longer taking taxis, so long I can help it,” Brienne says definitely.

“So, you rather walk. Or take the train.”

“Yeah, that’s still better. By far.”

“You don't come to know if there is another train I can take to get to my station?” Jaime asks.

“Let me check the app,” Brienne means to say, her fingers already on the hem of her jeans, but that is when it occurs to Jaime that he couldn’t care less about the time he gets home if there are alternatives.

_If your otherwise perfect day takes a sudden turn, you might just as well travel along to do some sightseeing to gain something from it after all._

“You know what, scratch that,” he interrupts her. Brienne blinks at him, her fingers still on her jeans.

“What? You have to get home, and it’s still too many stations to walk for you. After all, you want to see the game, don’t you?” Brienne argues, her frown only deepening.

“Yeah, I do. But here is what is going to happen once we get out of the sardine can: All the people now inside the train will hail down cabs or take buses or whatever other matters of transportation are available to them. And oh God, I am not sharing a taxi with some stranger. _Ugh_.” For emphasis, he shakes himself.

“Well, that leaves you with few alternatives.”

“Precisely. So… you are watching the game, too, right?”

She grimaces. “Yeah?”

“Do you come to know if there is some pub nearby Lion’s Gate? There is always some place to get a drink at every corner as far as I am concerned. Can’t all be down Eel Alley,” Jaime huffs.

“No, there is one I go to every once in a while, actually,” Brienne confirms. Jaime’s smirk broadens.

_Perhaps my day just turned back around to being perfect again after all!_

“Well, so my idea is that once we have reached the station in approximately… five minutes at this speed, we might just as well relocate to that bar, to watch the game. What do you think?” Jaime suggests, reckoning that a bit of boldness can’t harm.

_If you want to have a perfect day, you have to take matters into your own hands, right?_

Brienne looks at Jaime almost aghast, her mouth opening and closing a few times without any words coming out. “I, I don’t know, it’s…”

“I mean, you’d have to show me the way anyway. I am lost, you know that. I can’t even seem to get on the right train if not for women the likes of you with their magical apps showing me the way,” Jaime jokes.

“Yeah, I realized,” Brienne says, offering a small, nervous laugh. “I mean… I can give you the directions for sure.”

“Or you could show me. Think about it! It may be for the best anyway. Or else you run the danger of being late to watch the game. And you wouldn’t want to miss that, would you?”

“Not really,” she agrees, chewing on her lower lip pensively.

“C’mon. Don’t leave me hanging here,” Jaime teases, winking at her. Brienne looks at him for an achingly long moment, before she goes on to say in a small voice, “… _Okay_. It may be to your advantage to handle it like that anyway. By the time the game is over, it might be that the trail will be free again so you can take the train home, and work on some exposure therapy on your own.”

“Yeah. I mean, that is one of the merits of public transportation. You can get drunk without having to worry about how you get home,” Jaime says with a grin.

_And the big merit right now is that I am heading to a bar with her in tow – to watch the game on tops!_

“That is true,” she agrees, nodding her head slowly.

The train shrieks as it finally comes to a halt by Lion’s Gate.

“Celine! You will not believe this! Now I have to take a cab! Is your husband free to take me? No? Why? We know one another… I know that he is on the job, but I need a taxi thanks to that ridiculous stunt they pulled here. You would think that they cover the expenses, wouldn’t you? Oh, I should call the authorities straight away, but you know me, Celine, I am too kind-hearted for that.”

“For that, she would have to hang up on Celine, though,” Jaime mumbles to Brienne as he gets up. “Which I think will _never_ happen.”

They get off the train, surrounded by people moaning and complaining, cursing and lamenting. However, to Jaime’s mind, this very technical difficulty is what may potentially make this day a perfect day after all. Watching the game with Brienne sounds much more entertaining than hollering at the TV at home all by himself.

Truth be told, he can’t even remember the last time he just went to a pub to see a game. Back in Casterly Rock, Jaime did that all the while. Though upon reflection, that stands to reason. He left some very good friends – _if few_ – there when he departed from his birthplace. He knew them since he was all but a boy, but they built their lives up there, whereas his family was drawn to the capitol and he had to drag along.

It's almost humorous to Jaime that it is this woman he still barely knows who has him think about that, when in fact he didn’t waste a thought on it for years. He only ever felt a certain emptiness in himself as he sat by himself at home, but now it seems achingly clear – he is still as much of a stranger in the city as he used to be when he moved here. And in contrast to Brienne, he didn’t try to socialize on a private level beside the family.

The walk down the streets surrounding Lion’s Gate proves to be quite refreshing, if compared to the sticky air the train normally provides.

Though Jaime must say, it is actually quite shameful that he doesn't know that part of the city, whereas Brienne does, and Lion Gate is not by her living place either.

“Do you come here often?” he asks they walk down the alleys, which grow darker and darker, the shadows following them as the sounds of the big city become smaller and smaller, to the point that the alleys suddenly seem to belong to a small town instead of a city trying to outrun itself.

“I did more so in the beginning. It was actually born out of necessity,” Brienne replies. “The cable guy couldn’t get to work my TV for some _inexplicable_ reason, and it was play-off time.”

“Why not use the computer?” Jaime snickers.

“Bad sound because I didn’t want to buy new loudspeakers because the cable guy kept screwing up… and it just doesn’t feel right,” Brienne tells him, shrugging her shoulders. “I know it’s irrational, but that is the best answer I can give.”

“You also could have gotten yourself a ticket to actually go to the game. I mean, now you are even at the right place,” Jaime argues, enjoying the ease of the conversation, as though they were familiar, even though they are still strangers to one another in most aspects.

“By the time I relocated to King’s Landing and had settled down, all tickets were sold out. You should know that your only chances are having influential friends, spending days in the cue to get one, or buy one online at ridiculous prices only just to get a seat in the last row,” Brienne huffs. “So? Do you go to the game often?”

“In the beginning, I thought I would do what you said, and that was to ask my oh so influential friends. They got me a spot right in the VIP box.”

“Fancy,” she says, making a face that means the exact opposite, which is likely the first time Jaime had someone react to that in that way. Most of the past girlfriends who were chasing a way into high society would flash sparkly eyes at Jaime whenever he mentioned that, if only in passing.

_As though that was somehow important._

“Oh yes,” he chuckles. “With champagne and all that.”

“And that was not to your liking?” she asks, if cautiously, seemingly afraid that her straightforward reaction may have come across as too negative, which Jaime could not disagree with more.

Jaime wished there were more honest, straight-up people. Because Jaime has a enough folks surrounding him who will act as though they are friends, only to laugh and talk behind his back.

_As though I didn’t know that. People are such fools._

“I _hated_ it. Thanks to that, I stopped attending for quite some time,” Jaime replies. “It took me a while to figure out just what rubbed me in the wrong way about it.”

“And what was it in the end?” Brienne asks.

“I turned up to a game in business suit, conversed with business partners about my father’s enterprise and international trading practices, coupled with champagne and little appetizers coming on silver platters. That is not how you go to a game. You go to a game in a worn jersey that you didn’t wash since you started to believe that it is a lucky charm for your team because it won the first time you came in wearing it. You go to the game to in jeans, not wool imported from Lys. You eat wobbly pretzels and hot dogs and you have a huge cup of beer to wash the nasty taste down with. You holler all songs at the top of your lungs. You don’t leave the stadium before you completely lost your voice,” Jaime says. “That’s just not… what it is about, for me at least. And once I realized that I was not having that while watching the game… I rather returned to the roots, the normal stands.”

“I get that,” Brienne says with a small smile, surprising him once more by understanding something that most others don’t even seem to be able to grasp because it is such a personal thing. “My father would actually welcome that sentiment. He took me to games whenever time allowed it and we could somehow make it to see our favorite teams, but we always wanted to be right in the crowd. The best thing was when I had not yet hit the stage of a wannabe giant and was just a small girl interested in the sports. So that I could see everything when everyone stood up during the hot phase of a game, he would lift me on his shoulders so that I could watch.”

Jaime smirks, trying to think of whether his father ever would have done that, even if he had any interest in the sport, which Tywin obviously doesn’t, though the answer is quite easy – he rather would have hired someone to go with him.

“Oh, there it is,” Brienne says, pulling Jaime out of his thoughts, back to a small pub down some even smaller seeming alley.

The Dancing Goose. A pub with forest green awning, an antique-looking, dark, wooden door, and warm light shining all the way outside.

 _Quite promising_ , Jaime thinks to himself. _Those are the kinds of pubs I tend to enjoy._

They motion closer. Brienne peaks through the window. “I think it’s not too crowded yet.”

Jaime tilts his head to look inside as well, and to him, it looks rather cramped already, reminding him very much of the crowd on the train, though, upon reflection, it may well be that some of the fans hollering inside actually were on the train before. “Seems rather crowded to me.”

“No, it's fine, there is a smaller compartment in the back we can take up if we are fast enough, c’mon,” Brienne urges him, already diving inside before Jaime can pose any more opposition, just like she hops off and on the train.

Jaime has his dear trouble maneuvering through the mass of black and white jersey wearing mob of people of varying ages, heights, and weights, hollering their team’s songs to sound louder than the others. Gladly, Jaime doesn’t have much trouble keeping tabs on Brienne, since she still towers over most of the men and women present.

At last, Jaime manages to push past the mob intent on being as close as possible to the screens attached to the corners of the pub. Brienne already stands by a small niche with table and bench covered in green leather matching the awning outside, waving at him to come over.

“I mean, we will have to squeeze in a bit, but it’s better than being swallowed by the mob,” Brienne says once he reaches her. “But you can see the screen from over there quite well.”

“Hey, I am making you an offer: I am going to take this seat towards the mob, and you take the one in the back. I shall protect you and shield you from them, plus, you can see over my head far better than I over yours,” Jaime jokes, leaning in a little closer so that Brienne can actually hear him over the blaring of the loudspeakers and the out-of-tune hollering and singing of the people around them.

“But that means you will have to let me out for when I need to use the bathroom,” she warns him.

“I think there is worse. And anyway, isn’t that what women always say? _Oh no, I have to powder my nose_! I never powdered my nose. Why powder just the nose and not the rest? What is that anyway? Never got that bit,” Jaime huffs.

“The obsession of fair skin goes back as far as history itself,” Brienne says, already sliding to the back of the bench. Jaime, almost triumphantly, takes his seat towards the front.

“Yeah, but I don't care about it,” Jaime argues.

“Of course you do,” she huffs. “All guys do. All women do. We are conditioned in that way.”

“I don’t care.”

Brienne cocks an eyebrow at him. “What? So you don’t use skin cream?”

“I look like that naturally. Hey, I can’t help it that I don’t have to do anything for that look,” Jaime jokes.

“Lucky you, then,” she snorts, blowing air up her nose to make a loose strand of her hair fall out of her face. She leans her head on her hand, the elbow propped up on the table to take a glimpse at the screen. “Oh good, they haven’t started yet. I always like the entrance.”

Jaime hammers his fingers on the wooden tabletop softly as though he was playing the piano, checking the screen as well, before he turns his attention back to Brienne, who seems almost absorbed by the images flickering across the screen, indicating that she really wants to watch the game.

“So… what do you want to drink?” he asks.

“Oh, I can also go…,” Brienne says, blinking at him, but Jaime holds up his hands to gesture at her to stop. “I am at the front already. Just tell me what you’d like.”

Brienne sucks her lower lip into her mouth, still rather caught off-guard by his offer, before she replies nervously, “You pick something. I don’t really care.”

“What? You trust me with your beverage choices just like that? Now that shows me that you have a deep trust in me already, what a fortune!” Jaime laughs as he gets up.

“So long there is alcohol in it, it should be fine,” Brienne says uncertainly, averting her gaze slightly, and if Jaime is not mistaken, there is the faintest of blushes creeping up her cheeks – and not just from the heat of the pub.

He knocks his knuckles on the table as he stands up fully. “I will be right back. Hold the seat.”

“I shall defend it with my life,” she assures him in a dramatic voice.

“Now that’s what I call devotion.”

Jaime motions to the bar, easily catching the bartender’s attention. He doesn’t know how, but Jaime never had the trouble he knows some many people encounter when they try to get drinks at a crowded bar, club, or pub. Tyrion tends to say that he has some strange sort of aura that is craving attention, but Jaime reckons that he just chooses a good timing each time.

“What can I get you, sir?” the bartender with raven hair asks, wiping over the bar routinely.

“Two beers, biggest size you have,” Jaime replies.

“Which brand? We have a local beer from the capitol, one from the Eyrie, which is more malty, or one from the Stormlands, strong in flavor and…,” the young man says, but Jaime cuts him off, “The latter, thank you.”

He reckons Brienne may enjoy a drop from her region of origin.

The glasses fill with the golden liquid and the white foam crown on top. Jaime slides a bill over the table to the men. “The rest is for you. Thanks.”

“Thank you.”

With the two glasses in hand, Jaime makes back towards the niche.

“I have re-emerged!” he announces as he comes closer.

“That was fast,” Brienne comments, blinking.

He snickers. “I know my ways.”

“Did you bribe the guy?”

“I may have left a nice tip, which will likely guarantee that I will not come in last once I make a second order,” Jaime laughs easily as he sits down. “It can never harm to plan ahead.”

He slides one of the glasses over to Brienne, leaving a wet trail of condensed water on the dark wood of the polished tabletop.

“Thank you,” she says, already reaching down to take her purse out of her jeans pocket. “How much is that?”

Jaime waves at her to stop. “No bother. The beers are on me. You won't pay anything here. I am the guy, I get the drinks. I am conventional like that.”

Once more, he is met with the same aghast expression he already spotted on the train, and Jaime finds it strangely endearing to have her so caught off-guard for the mere circumstance of being treated a drink.

“Oh,” is all she gets out.

“What? Is your feminist agenda against that?” he teases.

“No, it’s just… doesn’t matter,” she says, shaking her head.

“C’mon, say it already!” he urges her.

“The game is about to start.”

“It’s still some time until,” Jaime argues. “Now c’mon. I bore my heart to you with letting you in on my dark sides of romanticism for trains – even at the danger of exposing my foolery to you. The least you can do is to tell me that bit just now.”

“It’s just been quite some time since someone treated me a drink,” she admits, looking down on the white foam swimming on top of the beer. “Not that this happens a lot in the first place anyway.”

Jaime grimaces, not quite liking the sound of that. Needless to mention that it is contrary to what he wants to achieve, namely spending a pleasant evening with her, if he keeps opening up what appears to be old wounds of people not paying her due respect.

“If it is you any comfort, I don't treat just anyone a drink, even though I have the money. They have to earn it,” Jaime says with a grin, hoping to somehow lighten up the mood again.

“Oh, so that’s what it is,” Brienne howls, having to speak louder now that the fans started another round of out-of-tune victory anthems to cheer on their respective teams. “You will make me work for that beer.”

“No, you earned yourself that drink already by helping me out.”

“Most kind of you,” she huffs, amused. “And truth be told, I need this. Indeed the electrolytes and the water after that hot day. The weather here is still killing me.”

Jaime nods his head, offering a sympathetic smile. “It takes some time to get used to, I know.”

“Did you ever?” she asks, letting her finger slide over the glass, drawing nonsense pattern with the condensed water.

“Nope,” Jaime laughs. “You just accustom yourself to the idea of dying of heatstroke on a daily basis.”

“Ah, so that's what it is.”

“Then we should raise our glasses,” Jaime says, lifting the beer, Brienne instantly copying his movement. “To what team?”

She rolls her big blue eyes at him, which seem almost jade in the warm light. “Obviously Kingsguard.”

“I am _so_ relieved to hear that right now.”

“Had I said Night’s Watch, you would have taken the beer back, is that it?” Brienne questions.

“I might have.” He grins.

“Well, then cheers to our team.”

“Cheers!”

The two clink the glass together before they take a long sip, relishing the cold drink as it pours down their throats.

“They have good beer here,” Jaime comments, licking his lips.

“I _know_. And truth be told, it tastes best like that, straight from the beer pump, and not from the bottle.”

“Preach it, woman, preach it,” Jaime agrees, yet again very much fascinated that the woman seems to share so much with him despite the fact that they have little in common. “So? How high do you think the Kingsguard will win?”

Brienne swallows some more of the beer before replying, “I am not sure that they will.”

“What?! You traitor!” he cries out in feigned exasperation. “They will _obviously_ win. They have by far the best offense.”

“The Night’s Watch has one of the best defenses. Why else do they call it ‘The Wall?’” Brienne argues.  

“All defense means nothing if you can’t score points.”

“And all offense means nothing if your defense falters like a leaf in the wind.”

“Their defense is passable enough to push their outstanding offense.”

“They need more endurance.”

“If you want to believe that,” he huffs. “So… what score?”

“I am not sure,” Brienne returns. “I want the Kingsguard to win, but I just have the bad feeling that they got too much attention as of late and will fuck it up today. They rely on their starlet status too much ever since they won the Super Bowl. The Night’s Watch has been gaining some promising recruits as of late. They may shake it up a bit, and I say so despite the fact that my heart still beast for the White Cloaks, obviously.”

“Oh _please_! Their offense play is just about awful, I cannot repeat that often enough.  Offense matters – _a lot_. And the Black Cloaks don’t get to bang. That makes them prime to lose,” Jaime insists, waving at the screen as the black team is shown in the locker rooms, getting ready for the game.

Brienne frowns at him. “Why don't they get to have sex?”

“Haven’t you heard? Their trainer forbids them to have sex before a game, at least the whole week in advance. I suppose most will still do it, but they are not supposed to. The trainer seemingly believes that this will enhance their game. I guess they wanna make them horny for the ball.”

“Ah,” Brienne says with a grimace, looking back between the screen and Jaime as she processes the new information. “Didn’t hear about that until now.”

“So? What score?” Jaime asks once more. Brienne blows out air through her nostrils, contemplating. “I don't know. 23-20 for the Night’s Watch.”

“You traitor!”

“I am keeping the fingers crossed for the White Cloaks, no doubt, but that doesn’t mean that this overrides my common sense,” Brienne argues. “And right now, I get the feeling that the odds are against them.”

“Well, I will have to bet 23-20 for the Kingsguard, if only to counter your negativity towards your own team,” Jaime tells her, shaking his head. “Such a shame.”

“Cheater!” Brienne cries out. “You just turn around my score.”

“Yeah, because I am loyal to the local team, in contrast to you.”

“I _am_ loyal, I just don’t know if they end up winning. That doesn’t mean I won’t cheer them on from the bottom of my heart,” Brienne argues.

“Oh, I have an idea.”

She looks at him. “Again?”

“I am quite inspired tonight, as it appears,” Jaime chimes.

“And what idea is that?” she asks.

“A bet.”

“A bet,” Brienne repeats.

“Yes, a bet.”

She shakes her head, almost looking spooked now. “I am not fond of those. At all.”

“Oh, c’mon, this is _fun_. Let’s say that… whoever wins… gets a free wish,” Jaime suggests with a grin, growing fonder and fonder of the idea as it keeps unfolding inside his head.

“Oh, now _that_ is daring,” she huffs nervously. “A wish could be anything. I don’t think I am willing to take that risk.”

“Nothing nasty,” he comforts her. “No million stags. No life-long imprisonment, or what not. Something small, I assure you.”

“Define small,” Brienne says, narrowing her big blue eyes at him.

“Hey, think about it. If you win, you can determine the price. If you tell me to strip naked and walk down the street like that, I will have to do that.”

Brienne frowns at him, furrowing her eyebrows in utter confusion and irritation, mingled with a pleasant tint of red coloring her pale cheeks. “Why would I ask that of you?”

“Because then you would get to see me naked?” Jaime replies, winking at her.

“Ah. Yeah. I bet that’s worth it,” she returns, rolling her eyes very slowly for emphasis as she takes a big gulp of her beer.

“So totally worth it. Trust me,” Jaime laughs, gesturing down himself.

Brienne nods slowly. “You know who says that?”

“No?”

“Very arrogant people.”

Jaime laughs out loud at that. “I can’t help it that I am apparently good-looking. But even if that is not on your mind, you can do whatever you want if you win. If you are that certain in your assessment, you can take the bet. Or are you afraid that you are wrong?”

“If you think that this is working on me, you are mistaken,” she warns him.

“I think I am actually pretty right about that,” Jaime argues, enjoying that game more than he should. “You want to prove me wrong. C’mon, you want do it, we both know.”

Brienne narrows her eyes at him, turning towards Jaime, as though she tried to make herself appear even taller than she is by nature. “Nothing nasty, you say.”

Jaime holds up his hand. “You have my word.”

“Fine, just so that you shut up at last. Or else I will miss the game after all,” Brienne says, waving her free hand at him.

“I am already looking forward to my free wish,” he hums.

“You go on believing that,” she huffs. “And now shush, they are coming in.”

Jaime grins to himself as Brienne’s mind seems to become one with the images flickering across the screen. Quite a different kind of first private meeting he’d tend to envision with a woman, but Brienne of Tarth proves to be one of a kind, completely ignoring all around her as the football players enter the field under music and fireworks – and the hollering and hooting of the fans in the pub.

He turns around, too, to watch the game, allowing himself to drift to the football field, too, finding himself pleasantly far away from any recollection of the VIP box, feeling as though he was right in the stadium, cheering his team on.

The game is more of a rush, images blurring together with sounds, voices, the taste of cold beer and occasional chats with Brienne, where they have to lean in rather close to even understand what the other person is saying.

When the final whistle blows, Jaime can’t seem to rid himself of the ridiculous smirk spreading across his face.

“I… should have supported the local team, as it appears,” Brienne says drily, still blinking at the screen.

“Told you,” he chimes, nodding at the crowd of white jersey wearing guys screaming, shouting, and hopping up and down, singing all of the team’s anthems _perfectly_ out of tune.

_One can always count on the local team._

“I could not anticipate that people of the Night’s Watch would turn their backs on their own quarterback,” Brienne says, waving in direction of the screen dismissively. “They left him to be killed by the Kingsguard’s offense in a way I have _never_ seen before.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t have wanted to trade with Jon Snow,” Jaime agrees, shuddering. “That looked painful.”

Brienne blows out air through her nostrils before taking another sip from her beer. “So much to the promising recruits. A pity, really.”

Jaime taps his fingers on the tabletop with a grin. “Well, not a pity for me because I won the bet. I even got the score perfectly right. I am so good at this.”

She scoots back in her seat slightly, running her long fingers through her short-cropped hair. “Okay, now I am afraid.”

“No reason to be scared,” he snickers.

“I am,” she replies, licking her lips. “So… what will I have to do for punishment? Though I will warn you, if it is something too embarrassing, I may hit you for even suggesting it. Hard. And I give you that one fair warning – I always keep my promises. So… what do you demand?”

Jaime taps his finger against his chin pensively. “Hm, I still have to decide.”

She frowns at him. “What? You didn't have something in mind when you suggested that bet?”

“Honestly? I didn’t think I’d get you to do it. I thought you’d chicken out.” He shrugs, enjoying another sip of beer.

“You thought I’d chicken out. _Wow_. Here is one thing you should bear in mind about me: Never underestimate that woman’s will to stick to her vows, however stubbornly. Though I will remind you that if it is too bad, I will hit you.”

“I mean… there is so much we could do,” Jaime says with a suggestive tone that has Brienne ever the more irritated.

“Like?” she asks, chewing on her lower lip.

“I mean, I do fancy the idea of having you walk around here naked.”

Her eyes widen impossibly much. “You wouldn’t.”

Jaime laughs. “Nah. I am not that much of an ass. I could also demand of you that you take me out for dinner. But that is against my principle that a guy always has to pay, because I am traditional in that way. Ah, the dilemmas to wrestle with.”

“And you wouldn’t break major principles like that, right?” she asks, trying her best to conceal her nervousness.

“Yeah. No one would who gives anything on them…,” Jaime says pensively. “Well you know, maybe I should keep you in suspense. And I call in the favor once I find it fit.”

“So whenever you find it right, I can get the duty call?” Brienne makes a face.

“Oh yeah.”

“Well, _that_ is unsettling.”

“You’ll have to trust me,” he chuckles.

“Yeah, maybe I’ll have to… Or I could take on a new identity and hide away,” she argues, tilting her head to the side.

“I know what train you take,” he jokes. Brienne snaps her fingers. “And here I thought that was a sound plan to escape the inevitable.”

“It was a good plan, considering the short amount of time you had to come up with it. And hey, who knows, a fake mustache or a nice wig can momentarily fool me.”

“Well, you will find out on the train anyway. If you see a freakish tall woman with a wig and or fake mustache, you probably have a clue about that person’s identity,” Brienne snorts.

“You could swat a bit to disguise your height a bit.”

She snickers at that. “Oh, splendid, workout while on the train!”

“See? This may actually have its advantages.”

Jaime didn’t even dare to imagine how easy conversing with Brienne could be until he found himself on the train today, just like he enjoys how Brienne keeps loosening up, and along the way, opening up some more, too.

“Well, anyway, I have to head home, so if you were so kind to release me from the bench?” Brienne then says, pulling Jaime rather forcefully out of his musings.

_Now already?!_

“What? No, the game is only just over. The party only began,” Jaime argues, gesturing around at the people in white jerseys celebrating their team’s victory.

“The party will have to do without me,” Brienne argues, craning her neck. “Because I have to head home.”

“What kind of a party pooper are you?”

“A big one, I am aware,” she huffs. “Now c’mon, I don’t want to have to crawl over the table.”

“You just keep giving me ideas for my wish.”

“Jaime, please.”

And while Jaime likes the tone of her begging, he reckons he should not stretch his luck too much. For that, they are still too much of strangers after all.

“Fine, fine, fine, if the lady asks so nicely,” he sighs, getting up. Brienne slips out of the niche, stretching out her long legs before she stands up.

“But really, give me one good reason why you don’t want to stay a while longer. And now don’t say that you need your beauty sleep, that excuse is older than the Wall,” Jaime huffs.

Brienne rolls her eyes at him as she shrugs back into her blazer, which she took off during the second quarter. “Yeah, no, I know beauty sleep is not helping.”

“No, I mean you don’t need it.” Jaime grimaces.

_This took an unexpected turn all of a sudden._

“Exactly.”

Jaime lets out a small grunt, swallowed by the hollering of the crowd. She seemingly wants to see a slight in his words where there really is none. The woman has a hard time accepting it that he is, at best, joking, but not all the damn time and not at her expenses all the while.

“I was just trying to say that I don’t get the rush,” he tells her, trying his best to keep up the pleasant mood that prevailed before.

“No rush. I just need to get home,” she argues.

“But why?”

“I don't need to give you a reason, really. If I want to head home, I am going to head home,” Brienne points out to him stubbornly.

“It was just such a great evening and…,” he says, his voice trailing off, but she interrupts him, “Great evening? The train gave up on us halfway home.”

“But we spent a pleasant evening here at the pub and had quite tasty beer. And I must say, seeing that guy with his war paint over there was well worth the ride,” Jaime laughs, nodding over at a guy who dressed up as a literal sword, a costume made out of cheap-looking, squeaking foam with gold paint smudged on only in some places.  

Brienne tilts her head to the side. “I will have to give you that much, that is right indeed.”

“See?”

“But I really have to head home, no kidding here,” Brienne insists.

“I mean, I _could_ use my wish to make you stay, you know,” he argues, puckering his lips.

“Well, then you will have to use up your wish for a woman to drink more beer with you, and that of another company. I don't know if that is good profit you’d gain from that arrangement, considering what outcomes are potentially still available to you.”

“Hm, that’s up to me to say, what I consider most rewarding. Though I quite like the businesswoman approach right there,” he says, winking at her, which only ever has her flustered, as it appears.

“Well, unless you want to use up your wish, I will go now, and leave you to the party,” Brienne replies, unimpressed.

“Yeah, no, I am heading out as well.”

“You don’t have to,” she argues, shaking her head.

He shrugs. “I suppose I socialized enough for a day. And I am kind of scared that the living sword will want to slow-dance. He seems to be… clingy.”

The two steal a glance at the sword-man, tilting their heads to the side at the same moment.

“Then we should head out before you get dance-assaulted.”

“By all means,” she agrees.

They make their way through the crowd, sucking in much needed air once they make it outside, the air pleasantly cold as it pours into their lungs.

“So? How do you intend to get home?” she asks, looking around.

“Since I have no traumatic experiences with taxis, I will just get myself a cab to take me home. You will walk, I assume?” he replies.

“Works best for me. Best way to get rid of the dizziness that comes with the alcohol,” Brienne tells him with a small smile.

He nods “Right.”

Brienne bites her lower lip, balancing back and forth on her heel, which has her look like a much younger version of herself, which in turn, proves to be quite endearing to Jaime. “So… I will see you on the train tomorrow, I assume.”

“Yeah, definitely. If you have to keep up with you exposure therapy, then so I have to keep up with my ill-founded romanticism,” Jaime says, but then snaps his fingers. “Hey, I have an idea.”

“Again?!” she groans.

He cackles. “I know, it’s strange, but tonight seems to be the night full of inspiration.”

“So? What inspiration just crossed your mind that you need to share?” Brienne asks, crossing her arms over her flat chest.

“If everything goes alright, I should get off work early tomorrow, around five. So… if I get on the train at the right time, I could be at Cobbler’s Square at quarter past, pick you up, and then take you out for an early dinner. I mean, it’d be Friday, so you don't have to work on the next day. I don't have to work on Saturday either.”

Brienne looks at him for a long moment, the silence flitting across the darkness of the street absolute.

“You are serious about this,” she mutters, not even daring to make it a question.

“Perfectly serious,” Jaime replies, gesturing at himself. “That is my serious face.”

“You are asking me out on a date.”

“Yes, I am asking you out on a date,” he says, mimicking her voice slightly. “And you have to say yes because I am calling in my favor. After I infamously won that bet.”

“You made a good guess,” she grumbles, which seems to bleed some of the nervousness out of her, though it remains present.

“A better guess than yours, which is why I won. So… you will be there, at Cobbler’s Square, quarter past five, and if you can bring yourself to it, you may want to leave shorts and cropped shirt at home. If I take you out for dinner, the staff may have something to say about that at the restaurant.”

_If you want to have a perfect day, it seems that you have to create it._

“Oh, so I am getting a dress code?” she snots.

“You can also come in business suit for all I care. Just… so that we don't get thrown out of the restaurant,” he snickers.

Brienne rolls her eyes with a sigh. “And here I thought about coming naked.”

“You can always come naked,” he argues, giving her a suggestive look.

“I suppose I will find something decent to wear,” she replies, gladly, falling into the easy mood, too.

“Splendid! Then I will see you tomorrow, at Cobbler’s Square, at quarter past five.”

She nods. “If you don’t instantly recognize me, it will likely be because I will come around with fake mustache and a wig.”

“I will keep that in mind.” He winks at her. Brienne rolls back and forth on her heels a few more times, seemingly unsure of the direction for a moment, before she starts to make the first step away, _if a hesitant one_.

Brienne lets out a nervous sigh. “… Well, then until tomorrow, I guess. Have a good night – and hopefully a bearable taxi.”

“And you are sure I am not supposed to walk you or we share a cab?”

“ _Most_ definitely sure, yes. Thanks,” she says, waving, turning around to leave, hands stuffed into the pockets of her jeans as she walks into the shadows of the street.  

Jaime stands by the pub until her figure emerged completely into the shadows of the streets, the echoes of her footsteps fading away along with the outlines of her body.

He takes out his cell phone to call a taxi, a smirk creeping up his lips as he lifts the device to his ear.

_Perhaps that is actually the magic of a perfect day – the unexpected happens._

Trains go out of service, leaving you stranded halfway home, but by the end of the day, it is from that unexpected turn of events that chances arise.

Because now Jaime has a date with Brienne, which came without careful planning, without greater set-up, almost like normal people would likely do it, despite the fact that they tend to be rather queer, strange figures in the big city, still searching for their spaces within, finding more common ground with strangers than they do with people supposed to be close to them, or at least, that is Jaime’s experience.

However, in sum, Jaime must say, this proved to be a perfectly imperfect day after all. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel strange to himself, doing the things he enjoys, but in company, and not just all by himself alone at home.

_Sometimes you seemingly have to meet up with people not familiar to you to refamiliarize yourself with yourself._

“Good evening, Jaime Lannister here. I need a taxi from the pub named Dancing Goose, by Lion’s Gate Station… Yes, thank you, that would be great. I am outside the door. Thank you.”

Jaime is surprised when suddenly, someone taps him on the shoulder. He turns around to come face to face with the living sword, suppressing a yelp of shock.

“You left your bag,” the man says with a small lull, holding out Jaime’s leather bag out to him. Jaime takes it, blinking.

“Oh, Seven Hells, I totally forgot. Thank you so much. I owe you, man,” Jaime says, touching his forehead.

_That would have been tough to explain at the office. And Tyrion would ask way too many unwanted questions. But gladly, that crisis was averted by the sword man!_

“You mean that?” the man asks, wrinkling his nose, which has a stripe of fading gold across it. In fact, the costume looks even more ridiculous from close-up than it does from afar.

“Why, yes…?” Jaime replies slowly.

“Coz I heard that you just called a cab, and I _need_ to get home, man. As in real bad. I am _dying_ in that outfit, mate. Maybe we can share the taxi?” the sword man says, looking at him pleadingly. Jaime makes a face.

That is not exactly what he envisioned for an ending of a perfect day, really. Though then again, he didn’t expect most of what happened today either.

“… Sure, I suppose,” Jaime concludes at last, reckoning that he may just as well share some of his luck, if only in the shape of sharing the taxi with a guy who is clearly losing too much sweat than his healthy for a human being. “So long the outfit stays where it is.”

“Yeah, no, wouldn’t want to take it off in public anyway,” the sword man replies, shaking his head sluggishly.

Jaime sucks the inside of his cheek into his mouth as he studies the guy. “You are not wearing much underneath, are you?”

The man just shakes his head once more, looking rather miserable.

“Yeah, then we leave the costume right where it is for the ride,” Jaime comments. “To where are you headed?”

“Fishmonger’s Square.”

“Well, that happens to be on my way, so it should be fine to share the taxi,” he tells him. The drunken man beams at him in sheer relief. “Thanks, man.”

“I thank you – for the bag.”

“Kingsguard fans band together and all.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

The two stand next to each other silently, the humming of the music and hollering inside being the only noise around them.

“Creative costume, by the way,” Jaime says, bobbing up and down on the back of his heel.

 _Just where is the damned taxi_?

The man looks down himself rather dazed, then nods. “Thanks.”

_Meeting with strangers can be a rather strange experience after all._

They continue in silence until, _at last_ , the taxi arrives. Jaime opens the door in the back for the intoxicated guy coated in foam, already meaning to get inside by the front, but then stops himself and coils back. “I guess it’s better if you go first. I may have to give you a bit of a push.”

“Not just a bit, I fear, man,” the sword guy says, looking at the door as though it was an impossible task to get inside, though clearly, it will prove to be difficult. That much is for certain.

And indeed, it takes Jaime quite a bit of strength to maneuver all of that golden painted foam into the taxi, under the scrutiny of the driver, who only ever looks amused at the two trying to fit the costumed man into the cramped vehicle. Jaime reckons that if anyone bothered to care to watch them, they would have the laugh of their lives, but gladly for them, all are still by far too occupied with the game.

At last, Jaime manages to stuff the last bits in, so he shuts the door before moving to the passenger seat up front.

“Everything alright in the back?” he asks, leaning over the seat, only to see the man sprawled across the backseat at a _very_ odd angle that looks anything but comfortable.

“I am good,” the man replies curtly, giving a rather meager thumbs-up _roughly_ in Jaime’s direction. The oldest son of Tywin Lannister turns back around to the taxi driver, offering a tensed smirk. “Alright, then we should hurry it up. To River Gate for me, and the gentleman in the back will want to go on until Fishmonger’s Square, please.”

“Alright,” the driver replies, giving Jaime a quizzical look.

“You don't want to ask, really,” Jaime chuckles.

“My Celine won’t believe it when I tell her about that ride,” the taxi driver chuckles as he starts the engine.

_Celine?! Could that be…_

Jaime just cracks up laughing, covering his face with the flat of his palm.

 _Now I just need to run into that beansprout teenager with the reflexes of a dead cow and my day will be utterly perfect_ , he thinks to himself.

Brienne seemingly has the rights of it when it comes to taxis, and as it appears, Jaime is now having a strange sort of exposure therapy session for himself.

But none of that matters to him right at that moment, because his foolish romanticism seems to pay off at last, or will do so tomorrow.

And he can’t wait for that perfect day to continue with all of its unpredictable, strange outcomes, to get back into touch with a man he used to be, and would like to be again.


	4. Cobbler's Square Station

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misfortune keeps striking for Jaime as he tries to battle bad luck and family problems. 
> 
> Brienne wrestles with bad luck and fashion problems.
> 
> And all that even though they happen to have a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, thanks for keeping up with the story against all odds, and I am ever the more thankful for the comments and kudos. You guys make me much happier than I can express in those few lines here at the beginning of the newest installment. 
> 
> As I have expressed in other fanfics before, crises kept striking at home in some of the worst possible ways, which is why my updating schedule has been even more messed-up than it is anyway thanks to the Earth Mother of writer's blocks. I try to get back on track, but it's hard during times such as these, but yeah, I am trying the best I can.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter features Cersei's incompetency which is certainly... expanded upon in this chapter to drive the drama, though honestly, as for canon, Cersei strikes me as someone mostly incapable of handling herself unless she has controlling entities close around her. But yeah, the story is definitely not focusing on Cersei and how she personally causes drama for Jaime, it's more that I needed drama and she is always a source for drama. Plus, Tyrion and Tywin are not helping, which is kind of the point. Poor Jaime, always stuck looking after the family.
> 
> So yeah, I hope you are going to like this chapter, even more so because we now also get into Brienne's head after we spent the last chapters more on Jaime's side.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy.
> 
> Much love! ♥♥♥

Bad luck will not prevail.

At least that is what Jaime has been telling himself ever since he fell out of bed this morning, only to knock his head against the side of the bed as he tried to bypass the nightstand.

While his bad hand is no longer as painful and useless as it was during the rehab, the apparent weakness in the limb still tends to catch him off-guard at times as Jaime rolls over to slap the alarm clock to give him another sweet, sweet five minute bliss of the snooze button.

And so, his morning began with a thud, a groan, and the radio version of _The Hammer and the Anvil_ blaring over his alarm clock, which did nothing to soothe his growing headache because the producer for this remake decided that adding techno beats to this song would somehow improve it.

It definitely does _not_ , however. Though to the producer’s credit, the song works just fine to _hammer_ into your brain without relent or mercy.

And Jaime would have to send some kudos to the radio station for choosing a techno song for the early morning hours, because that is what the majority of listeners want to hear while brewing coffee or hitting their head. That is what anyone must need most in the morning, no way of denying it!

Thus, Jaime spent the first ten minutes standing in the bathroom, fidgeting for a band-aid from the stupid package he ripped halfway open only for the entire content to spill into the sink.

It was only as he finally fished out one only slightly wet and wobbly package – courtesy from his still leaking faucet for which he didn’t bother calling the plumber just yet because that means he would either have to spend the weekend paying more than necessary or having to stay home for the time because those assholes can’t give you a more precise timeslot than sometime between eight in the morning and eight in the evening – that Jaime realized he took the wrong package at the supermarket.

Which is the reason why he now sits at the office with a violet band-aid on his forehead featuring truly artistic expressions of a two-dimension comic dragon.

 _Well, if I have to call up Daenerys Targaryen today, she may even like that. The lady has a mad obsession with these_ , Jaime thinks to himself. He briefly considered stealing neutral band-aids from the first aid kits around the office, but as he walked in with the thing already, Jaime couldn’t find it in himself to care, which is why he now wears the band-aid with pride.

So no, his morning has been pretty shitty, even more so after he had to change another time as he had to wait for the coffee and had to get dressed already thanks to the band-aid-debacle. So that when he could finally get a first taste of the brown ambrosia he was craving quite desperately after this horrid wake-up call, Jaime spilled half the mug across his chest because he apparently forgot how to drink.

Therefore, he had to change another time before having to fly out of the condo because he was already running late for work. That in turn made taking the car inevitable, and that even though Jaime had planned on an easy morning, standing at the train station, enjoying the light breeze, looking forward to the rest of the day.

The time after quarter past five, to be exact.

 _But bad luck will not prevail_ , as Jaime keeps repeating to himself as he tries to get through work without further interferences as he cannot afford breaking an arm while operating a stapler or sprain his ankle by pushing back with his office chair.

Though it may be worth mentioning that he already had to ask Ros to get him a new keyboard for his office computer because he somehow managed to hit one key so hard that the thing flung through the entire office in almost stellar fashion, only to get stuck behind his file cabinet to never be recovered again.

At least Ros had a good laugh when he called her up to proclaim that he lost his P.

But the bad luck will not prevail, it cannot, it must not.

Jaime has plans, the best plans since… longer than he would like to admit, granted Jaime’s Lannister-inherent ego and heightened self-esteem. He didn’t have much of anything to look forward to as of late, something that his train adventures should actually be a testament to. However, that shouldn’t lead away from the fact that Jaime now happens to have plans, even if the world doesn’t seem to be on his side for the matter.

 _But then again, when has it really been?_ Jaime thinks to himself as he looks at the computer screen, only to then think back to yesterday night and the imperfectly perfect day he got to spend in exchange for a lot of sweat and effort in the riding sardine can.

It appears that life is about trading, a constant negotiation of good and bad experiences, and if you play smart, you have chances of ending up with more good memories than bad, and Jaime is determined to come to remember this day as something good, against the very odds he is up to against already.

He used his coffee break to book a table at _God’s Gusto_ , a small restaurant only five minutes away from Cobbler’s Square on the road leading towards the Gate of the Gods, if you walk by foot. Jaime took business partners out for dinner there on a number of occasions already, which always has its merits. That makes getting a table almost entirely effortless as they are eager to keep a customer as famous as Jaime Lannister. However, beside that minor convenience, Jaime always liked the restaurant for its atmosphere. It’s not too big, never really crowded and never totally empty, they play good music, _and no techno whatsoever_ , it’s perfect to have private conversations in one of the several wooden booths… and their steaks are simply _divine_.

Plus, considering today’s success rate, Jaime reckons it might be for the best to keep distances short so that he doesn’t kiss the pavement while walking Brienne to the restaurant. And Jaime would _really_ rather not kiss the pavement.

_Not if there are other opportunities for kissing instead, such as…_

Jaime is ripped out of his musings when his father comes into his office.

This day just keeps getting better and better, it seems.

 _But bad fortune will not prevail_ , he reminds himself.

Not today.

Absolutely not.

_No way._

“What is that thing on your head?” Tywin Lannister asks as he closes the glass door behind him. Jaime wonders for only just a second whether his father was actually born wearing a business suit and a beard, but then abandons the thought when he remembers Aunt Genna once showing them old childhood photographs of Tywin Lannister, even smiling on occasion, looking like any boy his age. He seemingly traded in good experiences and the ability to smile and enjoy himself for wealth and the perfection of the business man impression.

“A dragon band-aid. They ran out of the golden ones with the lions, even though I asked in three different stores,” Jaime comments, offering a light kind of smile he knows won’t be returned.

“What happened?” the older man wants to know, though Jaime can say for certain by the sound of his father’s voice that he does not really care, just wants to have all information available to him, a trait he has had ever since Jaime can remember.

“Minor accident this morning. You know that this is where most accidents happen? Anyway, fell out of bed, hit my head, so now… dragon band-aids for me. Though I reckon that this is not the reason for you coming here, now is it?” Jaime comments.

Because his father is far too busy to come by for a chat. In general, Tywin Lannister wants to have you believe that he is too busy for much of anything beside the job, and that despite the fact that he nearly always seems to find the time to lecture his children, give Tyrion a lethal glare, or lament about how his children keep disappointing him no matter what they do.

_He truly understands how to make you feel at home even while on the job._

“As you were already running late this morning, I just wanted to remind you that I expect you to be sharp and on time for our video conference,” Tywin says, offering his eldest son the kind of look of disapproval he normally reserves for his youngest son, even though Jaime ran late five minutes.

And considering the odds he was up against, Tywin should probably clap him on the shoulder for the commitment to race here on time instead of playing the spoiled son who only ever shows up at the job for the show.

Because contrary to what seems to be common knowledge, Jaime is hard-working and while he is aware that he rose into a position of power fast due to the fact that he is the boss’s son, he normally follows a strong work ethic.

However, that is the thing with Tywin Lannister. You can make ten thousand things right every other day, and fail on one thing, and he will remember that to bring it up whenever it is convenient. Because that man has mastered the arts of turning every wrongdoing, every mistake, every blemish, every word you said against you like a weapon.

“That one is scheduled for Monday, though,” Jaime argues, furrowing his eyebrows. He checked the calendar just this morning another time to be sure that he didn’t mess up the dates – so not to mess up the date.

“That is the meeting with the Tarlys,” Tywin argues. “I am talking about the video conference with the Euron Greyjoy about shipping routes to further our commerce over their channels as that man has established himself quite well in the trading routes across Essos and Sothoryos.”

“Oh, yes, by illegal practices and supposedly misconduct towards employees. He gives me all kinds of Aerys vibes that I find my ears tingling,” Jaime huffs, but then frowns. “But I have no clue what you are talking about when it comes to that ominous video conference.”

“Your sister said that she had your support on the matter,” Tywin says, cocking an eyebrow at him, seemingly not quite liking the perplexity on his oldest son’s face.

“Then Cersei either meant Tyrion or got something wrong… or had wine for brunch yet again… I didn’t even know we were on speaking terms with Euron after he kind of took the business away from his own niece, who I think it far better suited for the job than this nutjob is,” Jaime comments.

_And did I mention that he gives me the Aerys vibes, because I think I did? But apparently, that is not a no-go for the likes of Tywin Lannister so long the numbers match!_

“She seems to be busy in Essos now anyway, making deals with Ms. Targaryen,” his father comments, unimpressed by what he hears.

“Apparently, everyone wants to deal with the Mother of Dragons. Maybe that’s why they sell those band-aids now, who knows?” Jaime scoffs.

“That’s beside the point,” Tywin answers. “Your sister said that you two set up the meeting, though.”

“I did _not_. Ask Tyrion or Cersei, for the matter. She probably meant him. Because she certainly cannot mean me as I have absolutely no clue that Euron Greyjoy was even someone we considered having trading agreements with because, frankly, I think we can well do without him,” Jaime says with a faux smile tugging at his lips.

Jaime long since learned that getting upset and giving inflammatory speeches does nothing when you deal with Tywin Lannister. He learned that lesson rather painfully when it came to Tyrion, and that no matter what he said, no matter how much he meant it, it wouldn’t sway their father only in the slightest.

The one way to get to Tywin Lannister is by having the facts on your side, and have an alternative ready that is more preferable for the patriarch.

“You think Cersei would, out of her own free will, choose to work with Tyrion?” his father questions, as expected not taking any notice of the latter part of Jaime’s words, but that is something he is long since used to.

“… I sometimes tend to forget that you did a wonderful job at indoctrinating at least one of your children with an unhealthy amount of misgiving towards her siblings. Congrats on the good parenting on that one, by the way,” Jaime scoffs, feeling increasingly irritated, as this day started out horribly enough and he would not fancy having to sit through another session of playing mediator between his emotionally stunted family members, and even worse while also having to deal with Euron Greyjoy of all people in entire Westeros.

_But bad luck will not prevail. But bad luck will not prevail. Back luck will not prevail. It will not prevail. It will not. It won’t. It won’t. It won’t!_

“Do I have to remind you whom you are talking to?” Tywin asks, narrowing his eyes.

“I am quite aware, but then again, I can all blame it on my head injury, and you could not even deny me. However, head injury notwithstanding, Cersei didn’t tell me anything about a video chat with Euron fuckin’ Greyjoy,” Jaime answers. “I would remember that much.”

And he certainly would remember, or else he wouldn’t have chosen today as the day to wind up at Cobbler’s Square for some hopefully wonderful hours to distract himself from the misfortune he had to suffer through all day long.

Today was supposed to be his lucky day, and while misfortune means to get into the way, Jaime can say that much for certain: He has since tried his best to control the chaos, and a talk with Euron Greyjoy on that day is something Jaime would be aware of most definitely.

“… I will speak to your sister. Unless this turns out to be a misunderstanding, I expect you to be there, on time,” Tywin says, unimpressed.

Because the man is always unimpressed when it comes to those matters. While he is very often the reason for those almost childish fights and quarrels among his children – and partly grandchildren the same way – Tywin will keep aloof at all times, or else he could not maintain this aura of professionalism when that man is as emotionally stunted as the children he raised, to a certain degree.

“I have plans for the weekend,” Jaime retorts.

He has plans today.

Good plans.

Better plans.

Far better plans.

With steak and easy music that is not techno, and a chance to get to know the woman better whom he has been looking at the train for quite some time already.

“And I can’t imagine the conversation will take that long with Euron Greyjoy,” Tywin says. “As far as I am concerned, he is not even that invested in the professional side of the job, he is much more focused on travelling to the places. Or so I have heard.”

“It better be so,” Jaime mutters. “Though I still hope that all of this turns out to be untrue as I have no interest whatsoever to deal with this man.”

“Will you tell me what those plans are you are so eager to defend?” his father asks in his usual monotonous voice that indicates no personal interest, but interest no less.

“No, they are confidential, I am afraid,” Jaime replies, rolling his eyes.

He learned this lesson by now, too, namely not to let his father know about anything that has to do with dating or the next level that has parents perk their ears “relationship status.” Jaime made that mistake a few times, unaware of the sheer gravity of it. At first, he just openly said that he was seeing someone, only to have his father run background checks on whether that match was profitable for the Lannister Empire the patriarch dreams about all the time, only to then keep making comments about how that woman did not exactly “fit in,” to subtly suggest not to run off to Dorne for an impromptu wedding or make it a long-lasting relationship.

Not that this would have brought Jaime to break up with a girl if he had had more serious intentions, but it made him weary of his father’s involvement even more than his apparent obsession with his oldest son’s relationship status. Because Tywin Lannister does not just have a five-year-plan but a one-thousand-year-plan largely building on the procreation of his children, most notably his oldest whom he wants to continue his legacy and thus keep ticking the boxes for the one-thousand-year-plan. And that includes working on grandchildren, fast.

However, the privilege for that ticket into the family, according to Tywin Lannister, seems to come with a non-disclosure agreement to keep the family’s secrets, prolific hips, family wealth of her own, and in general perfect looks, perfect teeth, and the kind of charisma that makes her liked and loved by all, including most notably tabloids and yellow press.

_And apparently, not many women of that kind run around – and even if they do, rather want to stay the hell away from the Lannister Clan._

Thus, Jaime made a habit of it not to talk about relationships with his father _at all_ , and even if he does, Jaime is careful not to drop any names. Otherwise, of that Jaime is sure, he will have his father either having an investigative team on her background just to be sure she is not just in there for getting part of the Lannister fortune or is the kind of woman Tywin Lannister would like his eldest to pursue for the sake of said Lannister fortune. In any case, Jaime knows by now that if he wants to have any kind of private bliss, he has to make sure to keep it private.

“I will talk to your sister now,” Tywin announces, folding his hands in his back.

“You do that while I try not to hit my head on the keyboard,” Jaime says, rolling the back of his hand at his father.

Tywin says nothing as he turns around and leaves the office wordlessly. Jaime leans back on his office chair with a sigh, letting it spin slowly, though he reminds himself to be careful as today does not seem to be his lucky day.

 _Not until I get out of here, of course_ , Jaime reminds himself. _Once I am at Cobbler’s Square, all will be fine. Bad fortune will not prevail. At all._

He has plans, for once.

He has plans and he is looking forward to them.

He has plans that are, for once, not revolving around floating through the city he now calls home without any sense of direction or true purpose, but instead give him a sense of direction, to Cobbler’s Square, to _God’s Gusto_ , to the small booth in the far right corner where the acoustic is best.

Jaime has plans with a woman he still doesn’t know that well, but wants to get to know better.

He has _plans_ , simple as that. And work alongside dragon band-aids should not get in the way of that, _Seven Hells_.

However, Jaime seems to have other plans for the sake of work as it doesn’t take long until the confirmation comes that his father wants to see them all in the conference room, which is the grown-up equivalent of having the family sit down at the dinner table to talk about what they did wrong this time around.

He can’t help but groan the entire way from his office over to the conference room, constantly checking his watch, though thankfully, he should get out of that meeting before five so that he can catch the train and make a great entrance, hopefully not by kissing the pavement right as he exits the train.

Yet, walking into the conference room reveals the ugly truth that he is right back to the “absolutely not unusual” circumstance to have his entire family gathered to argue over whatever nonsense this is meant to be.

Though that nonsense, apparently, is exactly what Jaime feared it to be.

“… You seriously launched a business deal behind my back? With Euron Greyjoy? You know that those things have to be run by me as your branch is concerned with quite something else, yes?” Jaime can’t help but curse as he comes to realize that Cersei, in fact, did what he hoped she didn’t, but _of course_ she did.

“I don’t need your permission to do anything,” his sister retorts, crossing her arms over her chest defensively.

There was a point in time when she was working in the company just fine. In fact, Cersei was the star child who made a profitable match, had three children who, except for Joffrey who was sent to a boys-only boarding school far, _far_ away for very, _very_ good reason, are all fine kids, and generally managed her job at the company without much interference.

But then the war of the roses began when Robert started cheating on her while she started cheating on him, rumor, though unconfirmed, says that their cousin Lancel may actually have a part in this. Then there was an ugly divorce that is now finally getting settled after months of dispute over who gets the summer residence in the Stormlands. Of course Cersei got it somehow by the end of the day because she does not relent until she gets her will. Ever since then, the woman was in a downward spiral as drinking increased while fury… also increased, and she found herself more and more dissatisfied with her role at the company, even though it is the one she has occupied for years without any sign of complaint.

“You do if you try to meddle in my affairs,” Jaime points out. While he could care less whether Cersei secured a business deal or not, he expects at least the general amount of respect to not have his name slapped on a project he would most certainly not agree with. And anything with Euron Greyjoy in it is something Jaime is likely to disagree with out of sheer principle.

“Your brother is right,” Tywin comments, looking about as pleased as Jaime is.

“You are only on his side because he is a guy,” Cersei laments, an argument that came up over and over again these past few months – _though it feels like years already_ – without her having found a way to prove that as, de facto, none them got a promotion to account for her sudden dissatisfaction with her position.

“I am on the side of the company, which is why I cannot allow for people in the leading positions, my own children no less, to have petty fights over who has more say. I told you that last time already,” Tywin tells her, doing well to conceal the anger you can otherwise hear pour out of his voice like lava.

“You wanted to have better business routes to Sothoryos, you yourself asserted that,” Cersei insists. “And that makes Euron Greyjoy a great candidate, especially as he is agreeing to those negotiations after I talked to him. You all should be thanking me.”

“Dear sister, for us to be thanking you, it’d require that there would actually be a signed contract,” Tyrion contends, obviously enjoying it that his sister is getting a verbal smack-down from their father instead of him for a change.

“I already chatted with Mr. Greyjoy. He seemed very forthcoming in the negotiations thus far,” Cersei argues. “I am most sure that he will make a great deal with us. I know how to play that game with the likes of him.”

“Just because you refer to what I’d assume likely was phone sex as negotiations doesn’t make it such, but sure, I bet he was very _forthcoming_ during those,” Tyrion scoffs with a mischievous grin tugging at his lips.

Cersei narrows her eyes at the dwarf. “What did you just say?!”

“Hey, I don’t blame you for wanting to shake it up as things are finally going smoothly for your divorce, but I think we can all agree that part of the reason why no one wants to let you handle those kinds of negotiations is that you are… not good at them,” Tyrion says, holding up his hands.

“I successfully negotiated with the High Sparrow for the security management,” Cersei insists, gritting her teeth.

“And then it turned out they were religious fanatics, so you had to fire them again,” Tyrion points out with a smile. “And we still hope that those negotiations of the Sept burning will turn out… without results.”

“Maybe I wasn’t out for long-term arrangements? Ever crossed your mind?” Cersei scoffs. “And that they accuse me of having to do with that is absolute nonsense. It’s not like anyone got hurt anyway.”

“We lost serious money and prestige because of that,” Tyrion argues. “A mess we all had to clean up so that the stocks didn’t crash all the way through the bottom of the diagrams.”

“Well, negotiating with Euron Greyjoy will bring us ten times as much money as this may have cost us,” Cersei announces confidently.

Tyrion only ever snorts at that. “Get yourself a room with the guy already.”

“You will not,” Cersei means to say, but Tywin is quick to cut her off, “Enough of that already. I don’t care for your quarrels, I need all of you to stay focused now. As it seems, the situation cannot be reversed anymore, so we will have this conference with Mr. Greyjoy to see what he has to offer. And then I will decide whether our company will agree to the terms he will propose – or politely decline.”

“You will all thank me later,” Cersei mutters as she already moves to her seat.

“I highly doubt that,” Tyrion snorts as he follows her example to hop on his chair as well.

“Do I really have to stay around for the matter?” Jaime blurts out asking his father, in the hope that since he was uninvolved in the matter, he might slip away without anyone’s notice.

Thinking about it, that may be even greater. Then maybe he could get Brienne a little something since Jaime didn’t find the time in the morning as he would have hoped to. After all, Jaime is a traditional kind of guy.

“You are the person Cersei should have involved from the very beginning, so _of course_ you have to be present for those negotiations now,” Tywin says, quickly destroying any hopes Jaime may have had to get an easy way out. “And I expect all of you to act as though all of this was… planned.”

“Father, how dare you encourage us to lie?” Jaime asks sarcastically, clutching at his chest to feign distress. “I am shocked.”

“You pride yourself being good at improvising. And now it seems that you can prove that to leave Euron Greyjoy under the belief that all is exactly going according plan. Because, despite the fact that I very much disagree with the methods,” Tywin says, giving Cersei a hard look before continuing, “we have potential gain from an agreement if it is to come about.”

“I already mentioned how I think that his is a terrible idea?” Jaime huffs.

“Hey!” Cersei cries out.

“It was duly noted, but I want to hear what he has to say,” Tywin argues.

“Let’s just hope we can get this over with quickly,” Jaime mumbles as he sits down, watching with growing irritation as Tyrion settles down beside him, looking far too joyful for the matter. “Now tell me please that you had no clue about any of this.”

“Oh, I saw the crash coming, I just stayed for the show because it’s too much fun to watch,” Tyrin snickers, flipping around his pen.

“And you couldn’t have given me a fair warning?” Jaime laments.

And here he thought that at least his little brother was on his side, but so much to getting a bit of luck after all the misfortune he already had to suffer through.

Tyrion shrugs. “I thought you were a big boy and would figure it out yourself.”

“I didn’t know about any of this until ten five minutes ago,” Jaime retorts, which has Tyrion look up at him genuinely shocked. “Oh.”

“You know, while I _do_ understand that you enjoy yourself seeing Cersei fail, I would appreciate it if you could somehow find it in yourself not to drag me into your quarrels every damn time,” Jaime mutters, his eyes already scanning over the preliminary contract Cersei seemingly already put out, because if he is supposed to improvise, he needs at least some things to hold on to.

“Hey, _I_ don’t quarrel. She pissed on your front lawn to mark her territory. You should be lecturing her, not me. I was the good son for once, let me cherish that for as long as it lasts,” Tyrion argues. “That may give me some leeway so that I can get a blowjob while sitting on the copying machine again. This is the greatest thing ever to fall from disgrace for.”

“You are the good son by letting her do as she pleases just so that Father would see it to the full extent?” Jaime scoffs. “Very adult of you, I may add.”

“She has done that with me numerous times already,” Tyrion argues, and while Jaime knows that he has the rights of it on that matter, that doesn’t make this any less childish than this whole situation apparently is.

“And was it shitty of her to do that?” the older brother retorts anyway.

“Of course,” Tyrion answers.

“So… why do you do it if it is shitty?” Jaime wants to know.

“It’s not that shitty when I do it because I am not Cersei,” Tyrion answers.

“The logic of that statement is beyond me,” Jaime sighs.

“You don’t have to understand that, my simple brother, you just have to sit back and smile and wave and watch it crash,” Tyrion says with a grin.

“I just want to get over with this fast,” Jaime mutters, checking his watch again. There is still enough time for an even extended conference, but he would much rather get ready for the good times instead of dealing with the usual madness of the family.

Because this takes up far too much of his time, his life.

“It should be alright. I mean, Cersei called him up quite often, so you’d think he will be easy to agree to most of what she proposes. So you just have to act like this was your idea all along and after that we return to our usual madness,” Tyrion assures him, only to then turn his gaze towards his older brother. “You seriously want to keep the band-aid on?”

“It’s my unlucky charm,” Jaime huffs.

“You are an odd creature,” Tyrion mutters, shaking his head with amusement.

“I suppose it’s a given fact that we are all kinds of mad in this clan,” Jaime comments.

“True again.”

_But bad luck will not prevail. Bad luck will not prevail…_

* * *

 

Brienne lets out a sigh, brushing beads of sweat from her brow as she lets her gaze wander about the platform of the train station, the circular gums, which all lost color to the point that they are gray blotches scattered across the ground, the few people on the other platforms either busily talking on their cellphones or walking up and down to pass the time, and big clock that is apparently off by two minutes, according to her own observations.

She unfolds and then quickly folds her long legs again, unable to help the small grunt as her skin would rather enjoy a more relaxed position, but now is certainly not the time for that.

Because today doesn’t seem to be her day, it appears.

Her morning already began without much fortune: Brienne slipped in the shower, something she didn’t do ever since she accustomed herself to her apartment, a process that took long enough, and still seems ongoing, yet, nevertheless, Brienne had hoped that she moved past the stages, only to discover that she did not as she rubbed her thigh to ease out the pain.

To make matters worse, this gave her a massive bruise on the thigh when she managed to collide with the shower’s door handle, the aftermath of which Brienne can still feel throbbing as she sits on the metal bench imprinting its pattern into her skin, possibly burning it in, considering how hot the damned thing is, and that in a too short dress no less.

Not that Brienne was _planning_ on wearing a dress, far from it.

Before she went to bed the previous night, the young woman already picked out an outfit, partly to release some of the tension she still felt after Brienne came home, partly because she always wants to have a plan and partly because Brienne rather prepares everything in advance.

She selected her favorite summer blazer, so not to repeat the mistake she made when she got on the train after the heavy summer rain which left her exposed in ways Brienne does not want to let it happen ever again, a matching silk blouse, and nice dress pants to go along with them. Putting together the ensemble took her long enough, as Brienne sees clothes as a necessity rather than a passion, even more so since she still tends to look ridiculous in anything too girly or too manly, as either one seems to cause irritation for the people interacting with her.

Brienne lost count of the many times she was mistaken for a man.

However, she was happy with the ensemble as it hung on the outside of her wardrobe. In fact, it seemed to fit perfectly as Brienne had plans to handle the registration for her charity team early in the morning, after she scheduled a meeting with the officials early on so that she would have plenty of time between the two dates. Because apparently, there is an _actual_ date following the morning gathering, something that Brienne had to repeat herself a number of times as she laid in bed.

_I have a date. I am going on a date. With Jaime Lannister. I, Brienne of Tarth, will go on a date with Jaime Lannister._

The outfit seemed to work just fine for both occasions. Comfortable enough for her not to feel out of place, professional enough for the meeting, and easy to take off some parts for the sake of the hot summer weather.

Brienne remained happy with it when she put it on, and only cursed a couple of times when she bothered ironing her hair and kept burning herself with this wretched instrument, which wields the power to tame her unruly, if short curls, which come to light even more so in this kind of climate, while at the same time proving to be a strange kind of nemesis. 

The young woman stopped being happy with the outfit when she settled for a smoothie for breakfast and her food processor decided to _explode_ in stellar fashion, repainting her kitchen in a varying shades of orange and red. Naturally, the stains wouldn’t wash off at once. Thus Brienne was bound to clean up the mess in the kitchen before she could change as she could only _slide_ her way across the tiled floor. And Brienne was not going to chance breaking a foot while gliding across the floor after the shower already proved to be difficult for her.

Thus, Brienne had absolutely no time to put anything on that involved buttons or zippers without missing the train, so she just put on the next best dress she could find and flew out the door to make it to the train station just on time.

Though the waffle-pattern slowly working its way into her thighs is reminding Brienne to throw that piece of clothing away on the next best occasion. It was one of those online purchases she actually put to the front of the wardrobe to remind herself to give it away to charity after she realized that it was too short on a woman her height, therefore exposing far too much skin to her liking.

And if all of that wasn’t bad enough already, Brienne didn’t get to go home after the registration because the man apparently knows her father, so he wanted to catch up on some stories about “good old Selwyn,” which Brienne did not dare decline. Thus, by the time she finally got out of the building, the blonde woman had to hurry to the train station yet again, then realized she was early enough after all, but too late to make it home to change into something other than this damned dress.

Therefore, Brienne spent the remaining time in the small, uncomfortably hot souvenir shop at the station. Brienne reckoned that she may call attention away from the dress in favor of a fake mustache and an awful wig she found amongst the rummage goods, seemingly some left-overs from the carnival that took place in King’s Landing not too long ago. She thought it might be a way to make fun of the situation after she warned Jaime that she may end up buying a wig and a fake mustache to disguise herself, since Brienne does not pride herself being a person of great humor.

 _He may have laughed and perhaps ignored the dress at least for the time being_ , Brienne thinks to herself with a grimace as she has to peel her thigh off of the metal bench again to make sure she doesn’t end up sticking to it.

And by that time, Brienne still thought that maybe all the bad luck would be made worth it as she would have some interesting story to tell, _if not in all of its details, of course_ , Brienne is far too cautious for that. Past experiences taught her that exposing too much of herself to people before she gets to know them very well is dangerous. Though she reckons that just the highlights of her misfortunate morning may have made up for some embarrassment she feels for the sake of this almost indecently short dress.

In fact, Brienne’s excitement over the unexpected date she had agreed to last night made her smile to herself like an idiot so that she had to wipe her fingers over her lips repeatedly to ease tension out of the corners of her mouth.

Because Jaime Lannister asking her out on a date? Brienne would have taken any bet that this was never bound to happen.

Certainly, Brienne has dated before. She also had her fair share of more and less successful relationships, if few in number. This seems little surprising, considering that she is a mannish woman, taller than most men, more athletic than most men, and happens to be in a leading position at a largely influential company, which puts people off additionally, or so she realized. However, Brienne never, not even in her wildest dreams, would have thought that Jaime Lannister of all people may ask her out on a date, let alone be interested in her on a private level.

While Brienne remains weary of the man’s intentions as the past has taught her over and over again to be mistrusting of those almost movie-like moments because they don’t tend to happen to the likes of Brienne, she found the idea of a date, whatever the kind, appealing, _very_ appealing in fact.

Because Brienne was speaking the truth when she told Jaime that she didn’t get used to the city and hardly made any acquaintances she would consider as friends. She has her little team for sure, but those are boys, not age peers. And the business partners she deals with on a daily basis are mostly far older than her and certainly not interested in the things she is invested in. That makes Jaime, as her train acquaintance, perhaps the first person she may get to spend some time with outside the work field, someone to be familiar with, which has a nice ring to it.

_A **very** nice ring to it. _

Thus, even if Jaime Lannister may simply be looking for a mere train acquaintance, for someone friendly to meet up with to the occasion, which Brienne still dares to suspect, she finds herself looking forward to that.

_It’s better than nothing, after all._

Though that thought in itself makes her cheeks feel hotter than they do anyway thanks to the weather, because Brienne can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe this is supposed to be more than two people becoming acquainted after a couple of business meetings and subsequent bumping into each other on the train.

After all, Jaime didn’t just invite her to “hang out,” or “have a beer sometime” but actually wanted her to have dinner with him. He was specific about that.

He asked her out on a date.

Brienne checks her watch, grimacing when she spots the red stains which have already partly rubbed off on her skin to make it look a bit like a rash.

 _Red smoothies are definitely off the daily diet for a while_ , she thinks to herself, quick to turn her gaze up when she hears the whistle and squealing of the rails as a train pours into the station, pushing the hot summer air ahead of the vehicle like a shield.

The tall woman stands up and shakes out her limbs, hoping that the waffle-pattern will disappear soon enough or at the very least pass by Jaime’s attention.

She walks closer to the platform, feeling hot air slap against her face when the train whooshes past her, screeching as it slowly comes to a halt. Brienne blinks as the handle of the paper bag with the mustache and the wig rips off and the bag tumbles to the ground.

_Sweaty palms and paper apparently don’t mix well, even more so when you make a habit of holding on to an object when you are nervous._

Brienne quickly bends down, if awkwardly, so to make sure she is covered on all bases. She picks up the bag and puts the mustache and wig back in place before anyone can notice, not keen on getting even more awkward glances than she receives in general. The young woman holds the bag close to her flat chest to make sure it doesn’t fall down another time as she watches the people getting off the train.

Some people seem to be relieved to finally get off the train, while others seem far happier about the circumstance that they have finally arrived, whereas some others already dash forward and more or less violently push past other passengers to get to their connecting train.

However, she can’t seem to spot Jaime among the mass of people scattering across the platform, even though he _should_ be getting off this train, according to what he told her his plan was yesterday night, and according to her check on the app while she was lying in bed, trying to get some sleep.

Brienne waits and waits as the people keep walking past her, either hurrying towards the station they have to get to in order to catch their connecting train or dragging their oh so loud, oh so colorful trolleys over the uneven ground to get the hell out of one of the older train stations around King’s Landing, which lacks all comforts of the main station, including air conditioning in the stores, digital timetables, and at least eighty percent of presentable bathrooms, as Brienne had to realize with all of her senses when she had to use the restroom earlier. The young woman even bothers to tip-toe slightly, something she normally never has to do, as tall as she stands, but there are apparently some tall people around King’s Landing beside her, but still no sign of the man Brienne had beer with last night.

Her hand travels to the back of her dress to pull it down a bit as her gaze lingers on the last person who got off the train striding down the staircase leading to the tunnel running underneath, a man too short and too dark-haired to be Jaime.

She checks her watch again. It’s only just five past five now.

_Maybe I got something wrong and he was going to catch a train coming a little later. Who knows?_

Brienne maneuvers back to the bench, wincing at the heat still not having worn down just a single bit as she settles down. She puts the wrinkled paper bag down beside her before rummaging through her purse. She pulls out her smartphone to check the app another time.

 _Maybe there is another train coming from Red Keep station to Cobbler’s Square? I probably should have checked **that** last night_ , Brienne ponders as her thumb dances over the display. _Or what if there is a construction site again? Or a malfunction like yesterday?_

Because he wouldn’t stand her up, would he?

_… Would he?_

* * *

 

Jaime stares back at the folder before him and the scribbled notes he made on the side alongside some angry-looking smileys without much of a smile, suppressing any urge to let his head smack on the paper.

This simply cannot be, can it? How is he still listening to Euron boasting about his accomplishments now for what feels like a small eternity?

First he had to suffer through three solid minutes of the guy getting the giggles at his band-aid, then the inexplicable urge of this guy to make one-handed man jokes remembering Jaime’s hand injury, only to then gloat about how he illegally seized his niece’s company, and not stop since.

And here he was hoping that this ordeal would be dealt with in less than half an hour.

Misfortune just seems to love him today.

Jaime lets his gaze wander around the room. While he mostly takes Tyrion’s sides on the important matters, the older brother could smack the guy right now for letting him walk into this mess only just to see Cersei make a fool of herself. Or rather, to let her make herself even more of a fool than she does by virtue of letting their father watch Euron’s little one-man show wherein, as should be noted, the guy cannot seem to hold back a comment about the capacities of his nether regions, quickly suggesting that they may want to pursue “a new kind of alliance” based on that.

However, the sole cocked eyebrow of Tywin Lannister should tell him that he is by no means interested in that man’s cock by contrast.

Though Jaime will have to give Tyrion that much – seeing their father’s face at that comment and the lack of apprehension of the overall situation from Cersei makes up for some of this, but _only_ some of it.

“… Well, Mr. Greyjoy, I think my brother would gladly agree to those terms, wouldn’t he?” Cersei then asks.

Jaime snaps his head around. He looks back at the notes he took another time.

_Surely not, dear sister._

“While it seems to me that there is a lot to be gained from our cooperation, I do not think that the conditions, particularly in the latter part of the provisional contract concerning safety measurements and employee management, suffice to build the strong alliance I’d assume we all strive for,” Jaime answers.

Though he really doesn’t strive for any kind of cooperation with the likes of Euron Greyjoy. He brought down Aerys for his nasty business practices, even if that earned him the nickname Kingslayer over the years, and Euron sounds like the kind of guy who would see the Mad King as his role model, for all Jaime can judge.

“But you said _he_ was the one who proposed it,” Euron comments, looking roughly in Cersei’s direction as the frame momentarily freezes.

Though that in itself has Jaime think back to Brienne alone, since both share in the hate for those stupid video chats, as they discovered last night over cold beer and watching the game together. They never bring about any good. Which reminds him: Jaime _really_ has to get out of here soon. He has to be by Cobbler’s Square station at least five minutes early to find a parking spot to leave the car for good before proceeding to the hopefully more fortunate part of his otherwise misfortunate day thus far.

 _What time is it anyway?_ Jaime thinks to himself, looking down on what he now comes to refer as his “car watch” as he also managed to get his watch soaked in coffee in the morning, which meant he had no time to gather a spare. Though he was happy to find a wristwatch sitting in the center console, which Jaime took to be a first glimpse at the fortune he definitely plans to dwell in later that evening with steak, wine, and chat.

 _And maybe a bit more._ A thought that already was tempting while he rummaged through the middle console to discover that Tyrion seemingly never stopped the habit to stash condoms in his car whenever Jaime gives him a ride, though Jaime pushed that away quickly as he was running late for the job and reminded himself not to get too excited too soon.

After all, it’s time to play it goo and step up his game as a womanizer, right?

It’s almost twenty to five, or so the car watch confirms, so that should work, even if he is stuck here until five. And then, all bad luck will be forgotten, only ever to be remembered when Jaime will recount the tale of the dragon band-aid, and maybe, just maybe, get a heart-felt laughter out of the woman who seems a bit too shy to laugh out loud in public.

“Well, as you will know, it can’t harm to have some ground to negotiate on, Mr. Greyjoy,” Cersei argues, snapping Jaime out of his more pleasant thoughts, back to the far less pleasant experience of being stuck in this meeting filled with bad business practices and even worse family relations.

“You _are_ aware that this was essentially what you promised me?” Euron retorts, sounding not at all pleased with Cersei.

“This is pure gold,” Tyrion chimes, watching his older sister fumble and stumble and possibly fall.

“This is taking forever,” Jaime grunts, unable to care for the drama as he would rather entertain more pleasant thoughts, those that mean escape from just this madness.

“I wouldn’t know. I couldn’t find my watch in the morning, so I am just here to enjoy the show in its entirety till the bitter end,” Tyrion laughs, watching the exchange between Euron and Cersei over the “who said what and when and how.”

“You had hookers come over again and one stole your watch, huh?” Jaime huffs.

“You do know me well, brother. They have such skilled little fingers,” the younger man snickers.

“I thought we already agreed to the most basic terms. Why else would I have this provisional contract right here?” Euron wants to know, waving the thing at the screen, though it’s more of a flash of white pixels than anything else.

“Mr. Greyjoy, I’d assume that my daughter was merely putting together a program to base the negotiations on. As I was not involved in the process just yet, and am the biggest shareholder in the company, it’d seem to me that this plan is a mere template,” Tywin argues, keeping his voice as calm as ever.

“That’s not what she said,” Euron insists, looking back at Cersei. “You promised me a lot more than that.”

“I said it’s up to debate.”

“I remember that differently.”

“Mr. Greyjoy, I was thinking about something, actually,” Jaime intercedes.

All turn their heads to Tywin’s oldest son. He lets out a light cough before continuing, “I believe that we may all profit from you coming here to discuss those matters with us face-to-face. That would give all of us a bit of time to prepare and thus find an agreement favorable to both sides. It seems to me that there were some misunderstandings in the communication. And we wouldn’t want to build an alliance on false information, now would we?”

“Is it that you are trying to get rid of me, Mr. Lannister? Because that would be so harmful for our negotiations, wouldn’t you agree?” Euron asks, narrowing his eyes at him.

“Nothing would be further from my mind, Mr. Greyjoy,” Jaime argues, though he really would like to get rid of the guy. “I simply see that there seems to be a gap between expectations and that which is up to negotiations. And we cannot bridge that gap unless we all agree on the basis of the negotiations we mean to build on. After all, you can’t build a house on nothing but sand.”

“Well, I called to make a deal, and up until now, _Lannister Corp_. has not been nearly as forthcoming as I thought you all would be, based on what Ms. Lannister here promised me. After all, those trading routes are solid gold according to most people,” Euron challenges him.

“As my father already said, we most certainly have interest in a cooperation with you, but the conditions, as they were sketched out, do not meet the standards this company means to stand for, and neither do I think you would want to stand for it,” Jaime argues.

Though he doubts that this man has any kind of standard. In fact, he is fairly sure that the guy wouldn’t even know what that means.

“Well, they seemed rather good to me,” Euron huffs.

“I would make the following suggestion: You come here to have a meeting with us. Naturally, _Lannister Corp_. is going to cover all of your expenses, a stay at the Red Keep Inn, flight, board and lodging, and of course whatever sightseeing you may want to do around the capitol. Furthermore, we would be glad to give you the opportunity to see for yourself how your potential business partner is operating, and based on that we should have a more informed discussion about the conditions of this deal,” Jaime suggests. “I bet my sister would be delighted to show you around the company as well as the city, am I right?”

He is not surprised that Cersei gives him nothing but a dark look, utterly displeased at the circumstance that Jaime dares to intervene what she still perceives to be a good plan.

“Are you suggesting a first date, Mr. Lannister?” Euron laughs.

“As a matter of speaking, yes,” Jaime answers. “As I cannot imagine that my sister would mean to miss out on the opportunity.”

Though he will certainly try to stay out of that.

He has another first date.

An actual first day.

One that actually matters.

And he has to get out of here so not to run late. Because Jaime is a traditional guy and hates it to keep his date waiting. That is not what a gentleman does, after all.  

“Well, as it seems you still have some figuring out to do, I suppose I will have to take that deal, though I expect more for when I bring here, even more so because I sacrifice my valuable time for this kind of nonsense,” Euron says at last, which has Jaime tempted to thank the Seven for finally showing mercy with him, but only just almost.

“It was not nonsense,” Cersei intercedes. “I am sure we will make a great deal, though my brother appears to be right that maybe we both rushed things a little bit.”

And you just know by the way she looks that Cersei couldn’t be angrier over the fact that she has to give in.

“Maybe just a bit,” Euron huffs, making his discontent no secret. “Well, in any case, I expect the first class tickets ASAP. I am looking forward to the first date, then.”

“We thank you for your time, Mr. Greyjoy,” Tywin says, nodding his head.

Euron lets out a manic laugh before disconnecting promptly. Silence spreads throughout the conference room, only for the youngest member of the family to break it when unable to hold back his giggling anymore.

“What in the Seven Hells was that?” Jaime cuts in, not in the least amused in contrast to his younger brother.

“I wouldn’t know. I definitely had no part in that shit-show,” Tyrion snickers.

“So now, what did I tell you about trying to sneak into the branch not under your authority?” Tywin wants to know, also turning towards Cersei.

“I already said it. _I_ was the one who got Euron Greyjoy on-board in the first place, something none of you managed until now. _I_ made that happen. Why would I then leave it to Jaime to finish what I begun?” Cersei retorts.

“Well, you could have started by _involving_ me into this so that I knew you were making decisions on my behalf – and Tyrion’s, as he is the one you want to call up when it comes to arranging treaties. Because in contrast to both of us, he actually studied the law,” Jaime retorts, honestly fed up with all this.

He is just so done having to play referee for the family. While Jaime mostly has to defend Tyrion to his sister and his father, Tyrion enjoys having quarrels with them all the same, which is why the little man is just as keen on stirring up conflict.

And Jaime, as always, is stuck in the middle of it.

“I consulted with…,” Cersei wants to say, but Tyrion intervenes, “If you say Qyburn now I am going to scream.”

Cersei narrows her eyes at him, but then leans back in her chair. “In any case, I think we can all agree that if not for me, we would not have a chance at negotiations with Euron Greyjoy. And you should also see that if you all if you didn’t leave me stuck in my position, I could do much more.”

“And you _do_ realize that those decisions are ultimately up to me, the person who built the empire you were born into like your brothers?” Tywin argues, a bit of anger finding its way into his otherwise calm businessman persona. Because Tywin Lannister may not get upset when his children have fight after fight, but he will take offense if that means any harm to his dream of an empire meant to last a thousand years.

“You just have a clear favoritism because they are men,” Cersei insists.

“I have no favoritism. I want to see results, and you did not deliver,” Tywin tells her coolly.

“If this is still about my divorce, you can very well…,” she says, gritting her teeth, but he patriarch is having none of it as he goes on to say, “This is not about your divorce, however harmful it may have proven for our business ties with the Baratheons. This is rather about how you embarrass us all with trying to seize more power than you already have.”

“I want to be equal,” Cersei argues.

“By rights, you are. All of you have a branch to overlook at the company,” Tywin replies. “You want to stand above your brothers, and up until now, you have not proven yourself worthy of that kind of promotion.”

“I was trying to, but you don’t let me.”

“Does inviting your phone sex partner count towards a promotion? Someone should have told me that!” Tyrion laughs. “Then I would be running the thing in years now!”

“You shut up,” Cersei hisses.

“Why would I?”

“Could we possibly delay this family talk for another miserable Christmas gathering?” Jaime intervenes. “Because I honestly have places to be.”

“I would much rather sit down right now to make a plan for Euron Greyjoy’s arrival,” Tywin argues. “After all, you made a good call to buy us some time, and we should use it wisely to make a better second impression.”

“Well, I am heading out because it’s already five and I have other plans,” Jaime announces, fed up at last.

_Because bad luck won’t prevail._

“It’s past six,” Cersei argues, frowning at him.

Jaime gapes. “What?!”

“Didn’t you check your watch?” his twin sister asks, her grimace only deepening.

Jaime looks down on his wrist. It says that it’s five.

“But it’s…,” he mutters, and that is when it dawns on him: The car watch likely sat there for weeks, if not months, which means that he did not switch this one to daylight saving time just yet.

_Who ever came up with this nonsense anyway? And why is there no fuckin’ clock in this conference room? Oh right, because Tywin Lannister is convinced that you don’t want potential trading partners to check the time all the while._

Jaime suppresses any urge as his mind goes over the fact over and over again that it’s actually six already, which means that he is almost an hour late to his date already, which equals an eternity away from his good luck of the day.

“I have to go, right now,” Jaime announces before simply exiting, despite his father’s insistence that he ought to stay.

The young man almost flies through the office as he makes his way outside, nervously fumbling for his phone as he goes to dig up the number from Brienne’s portfolio. He remembers that there was a phone number and he saved it to his cell, just in case the woman would call him up again to curse at him for the agreement that was in the process of making by that point of time.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Jaime growls as he reaches the parking lot and rushes over to his car. At last, the name “Ms. Tarth” pops up in his list. Jaime hits the button and waits for the dialing tone.

“Pick up, pick up already,” he mutters he fumbles for the keys with his free hand.

However, as he slides into the car and snaps the door shut, Jaime can hear a scratching noise, followed by an automated message informing him that the number he wants to call is unavailable.

“Of course it is,” Jaime snaps while buckling up and starting the engine in the same motion, quick to pull out of the parking box and then speeding down the streets, not caring whether he will get a ticket for it. After all, this is a case of emergency.

Because all the misfortune has to have a pay-off of some kind, at least.

When he reaches Cobbler Square Station, Jaime is thankful that the parking lot is not nearly as crowded as he feared it to be, so he rushes out of the car and runs down the underground hallway leading to the platforms.

Jaime stumbles almost two times while climbing the stairs leading to the platform he should have gotten off if he had taken the train as he had it planned.

Once Jaime reaches the top of the stairs, he feels almost knocked off his feet when hot air gets pushed to his side as a train arrives under screeching and rattling as the vehicle comes to a halt. He leans his hands on his knees as he sucks in much-needed air.

He came up with all kinds of cheesy scenarios that he found almost ridiculous last night while lying in bed, but he found that all of them made him smile to himself, no matter how cheesy they were. However, in no scenario did Jaime put on a watch that displayed the wrong time, didn’t realize that even though he looked at a computer today, to thus arrive at the train station at quarter past six sharp instead of quarter past five as he had planned it to meet up with the woman from the train who turned out to be someone he already knew beforehand.

In no scenario did Jaime make such a fool of himself – and possibly destroyed all future chances of his escape from the abnormality of the normality of the city, the capitol that tries to outrun itself, only to be caught up in the same motions, the same timetables, only for the people to be out of rhythm, always running out of time.

And that after Jaime spent such an unexpectedly wonderful evening with a woman he mostly fought with when he first met her at the company.

This was supposed to be his lucky day.

Bad luck was not meant to prevail.

The train sets back into motion and the railroad tracks howl as the vehicle slides across them until it finally gains speed.

Jaime watches the people who hopped off the train making their way down the stairs from which he came, busy on their phones, busy with their lives, most of whom will likely be more on time than he is, as it seems to be that only Jaime is out of touch, out of tune, the world moving far faster than he estimated.

Because apparently, he can’t have normal, he can’t have even so much as a cheesy beginning for something that took such a nice start last night. He can only have family madness keeping his attention from the rest of the world turning faster, leaving him stuck in the same motions, the same rhythm that annoys him about as much as this damned techno music in the morning.

With a sigh, Jaime drags himself over to the next best bench and lets himself fall down on the iron, grimacing at the heat of the metal seeping through his dress pants.

He looks back at his phone.

 _I definitely should have asked for her private phone number before I let her go_ , Jaime thinks to himself deploringly. W _hy didn’t I think about that? Seven Hells, of course you get the girl’s number. Or you give her yours so she can call you up to demand answers._

But no, Jaime got too giddy, too drunk on the feeling of things going right for once, securing a date with his most strange train acquaintance.

And now this.

Now bad luck prevailed after all.

_Damn it._

So much to his sweet escape, so much to finally having something simple as a date, out of the blue, out of the blue of her wonderful sapphirine eyes.

Jaime’s gaze wanders over to the trash can next to the bench when a warm breeze flits over the platform to send a paper bag without a handle rustle loudly. He furrows his eyebrows at the content sticking out on one edge.

_Who the hell leaves a wig and a fake mustache in the trash can?_

_And who dared to invent day saving time anyway?_

_And far more importantly, why is fortune never on my side when it matters?_

_Why won't my luck, for once, prevail?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S.: I hereby expose myself as someone strongly opposing daylight saving time. And I will use this platform to make that known.


End file.
